Monday, 14 June 2010

P.M. ... 14/06/2010

96 hours. Or 4 days. Depending on how you want to look at it. Like I said before, 96 hours can kill you. But let's face it, so can 4 days. I want out. If I wasn't already on the way home, I'd want to go home.
Gentlefolk, I confessed this morning to being something of a hypocrite and I feel that way again. The reason for this is simple. For the past year that I've been under the employ of my current place of work, at the beginning of each week, I choose a day and proudly announce 'I'm not going to work that day. Ill call in sick, stay home and relax'.
I don't know how many of you do this, but I've never failed to make that statement. However in some sick two-faced, back stabbing fashion to my very own person, I've never seen it through. People everyday, for the past year that my presence is expected at the office, I have not failed to show up.
As you can imagine, this is upsetting me greatly. Just today, as I was making this bold faced lie of a proclamation, screaming softly in my head "I'm not coming to work on friday", a smaller, more sinister voice snickered back "oh yes you are!" This frightened me people, for I have never really engaged myself in conversation before. Asides from the occasional drunken shout into the mirror of "YOU'RE THE MAN!", I prefer to speak to other people outside my subconscious.
Clear as a bell though, I heard it, "oh yes you are". Gentlefolk, I fear that management may have implanted a controlling chip inside my head. That is the only rational explanation I can give. Because as you all know, work isn't exactly my favourite pasttime. So how does it come to be that even though every fibre in my body has declared a private holiday, there's a part that has already decided to make an appearance at the office.
Of course, there is another rational explanation. I am a masochist. That by the way is the 2nd option, not a declaration. Let me rephrase... Am I a masochist? Depsite my obvious dislike of my job, employers etc., do I enjoy the pain? Because for the life of me, I cannot explain why I haven't taken that day off which I keep promising myself. Somewhere deep inside, is it possible that my job can be compared to nipple-clamps, studded dildos and serrated dog collars? Do I enjoy the punishment and pain that I endure everyday. If this is the case, then that would make my boss my dominatrix. The very thought of my boss in a leather thong or PVC, brandishing a whip and telling me to call him 'mistress' is single handedly the most disturbing thought I've ever had... And trust me, I've had some sick shit in my head before.
Just one day off, that is all I ask of myself. Yet once the morning comes, and my alarm goes off, I jump out of bed like a good little slave, dash to the office and beg my 'mistress' to punish me, cos I've been a naughty boy. Its sick I tell you.
Please gentlefolk, don't get delusional and imagine that the reason for my steady work rate is the fact that I'm hard-working and responsible. That misconception can easily be cleared up by anyone who is acquainted with me on a personal basis. I could give a fuck bout responsibility, team spirit or work pride. I here for the money. Period.
Clearly I'm disturbed. But do not fear for me, I shall find a way to escape this seemingly desireable pain which I get from my workplace.
Gentlefolk, my ass is sore from repeatedly being whacked with a cricket bat. I must put away my handcuffs, step out of this PVC shirt and get some rest now. My mistress expects me to bend over again tomorrow.
96 hours gentlefolk. Or 4 days, depending on how you want to look at it.
I am Womilee. You dig?

1 comment:

  1. Hahaha we like to say we dont give a fuck but we doooo!!! U shall not b judged! :) :)

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