well bugger me. Everyone is tired and pissed off today, an amusing thing giving plenty of scope for irritating people.
My office is starting to look like the inside of my head, confused and messy with a careless air to it.
I'm haunted by images of Rowan Atkinson prancing about in his Blackadder costume, what on earth is that all about?
I've got post meeting stress disorder, a sort of anxious "what the fuck do we do now" kind of thing. The women at work are escapees from the dog pound, it's as if we hired a seriously ugly senior chick who then hired in her own image below her. The place is full of mental retards and women who resemble a bulldog chewing a wasp.
It's too hot to go outside and Mr Apathy's new haircut, sort of full-metal jacket meets Donny Osmond, has inspired Enemabag to have his own coiffure fucked up.
I know he's only gone to the hairdressers because he wants some breast rubbing therapy from the girl there.
The department are mingling in corridors doing their what do we do now thing. A vacant looking lot at the best of times today there seems more than a hint of desperation in their sad, beer ridden eyes.
I wonder what Elvis would have done in this situation, probably have a burger and fries.... hmmm good idea fat man...