08 April 2006
Tada-da-da-dee-dum
Well it's the least I can do to veer my head away from fury: pretend to know how to, uh, sing.
I've been holding up for over 24 hours now. I'm wound up--way past it, actually--and right now I want to verbally murder two people.
And that's what I shall do now, but not to both morons. One I can give one last chance to clear my view before she pushes me to complete madness; the other, way too much for me.
For the sake of "decent anonimity", let's call the culprit... err... FTP. (It's what I first saw when I looked around my desk, so let's call the sanavabich, FTP.)
FTP is a 6-foot college dropout. We've been pretending to be friends for over a year now. It's fun actually, minus the part when we realize it's just a show.
Yesterday, FTP came to me with some sort of a problem--surprise, surprise. The sucker that I am, I lent an ear... despite the fact that I'm not comfy discussing crap like that especially when he says he'll be leaving. We're hypothetical friends, remember? And I have separation issues. Anyway, going back, we began whispering to each other... But we were still in the office and it's really hard to discuss shit like that when your neurotic company president is right behind you. So FTP said we'll talk about it later. Repeat: "We'll talk later."
It's almost rare, this chance that he shares me shit that bothers him. And I really wanted to at least listen. We waited for lunch. Oh wait, hold it--I waited for lunch, so we can talk. And where was FTP? Went out with another... bit-... sigh... character. That ticked me.
I SMS-ed him. Casually, like the come-what-may imbecile that he is, he said he's out to lunch and implied he didn't know I was waiting for him. I began fuming. You know the rest.
I would babble about how sad and angry I am because of it, but that's what I already usually do and I'm getting sick of it. So let me get on with the killing.
FTP, the grammatically-challenged gold digger, apparently also has very low EQ. And we're not talking about the perpetual battle of the sexes-type of EQ comparisons. He was simply born that way: an apathetic English-moron. Even my own indifference can't compete with that. And what's with the Joey de Leon attitude? I get that you're quite popular and all, but gimme a break: The world can and would live without you.
That would also mean a world less one pathetic singing. I mean, come on, singing is absolutely Not For You. Stop competing with your buddies who have more valuable talents than getting benched in a ball game.
I hope he comes into his senses soon. And by that I mean about the money he owes me. All thousands of it. It's not a big sum, but a debt is a debt. 'Nuff said.
Now, whenever he's around I feel like the world is a rusty car exhaust. One word: nicotine. Cigar smell is everywhere! I swear, one of these days all smokers will just fall dead and when that happens I want to be right next to him so I could look down on him, in the eye, and say, "Finally."
Oh wait, that's too harsh...
Nah.
I've been holding up for over 24 hours now. I'm wound up--way past it, actually--and right now I want to verbally murder two people.
And that's what I shall do now, but not to both morons. One I can give one last chance to clear my view before she pushes me to complete madness; the other, way too much for me.
For the sake of "decent anonimity", let's call the culprit... err... FTP. (It's what I first saw when I looked around my desk, so let's call the sanavabich, FTP.)
FTP is a 6-foot college dropout. We've been pretending to be friends for over a year now. It's fun actually, minus the part when we realize it's just a show.
Yesterday, FTP came to me with some sort of a problem--surprise, surprise. The sucker that I am, I lent an ear... despite the fact that I'm not comfy discussing crap like that especially when he says he'll be leaving. We're hypothetical friends, remember? And I have separation issues. Anyway, going back, we began whispering to each other... But we were still in the office and it's really hard to discuss shit like that when your neurotic company president is right behind you. So FTP said we'll talk about it later. Repeat: "We'll talk later."
It's almost rare, this chance that he shares me shit that bothers him. And I really wanted to at least listen. We waited for lunch. Oh wait, hold it--I waited for lunch, so we can talk. And where was FTP? Went out with another... bit-... sigh... character. That ticked me.
I SMS-ed him. Casually, like the come-what-may imbecile that he is, he said he's out to lunch and implied he didn't know I was waiting for him. I began fuming. You know the rest.
I would babble about how sad and angry I am because of it, but that's what I already usually do and I'm getting sick of it. So let me get on with the killing.
FTP, the grammatically-challenged gold digger, apparently also has very low EQ. And we're not talking about the perpetual battle of the sexes-type of EQ comparisons. He was simply born that way: an apathetic English-moron. Even my own indifference can't compete with that. And what's with the Joey de Leon attitude? I get that you're quite popular and all, but gimme a break: The world can and would live without you.
That would also mean a world less one pathetic singing. I mean, come on, singing is absolutely Not For You. Stop competing with your buddies who have more valuable talents than getting benched in a ball game.
I hope he comes into his senses soon. And by that I mean about the money he owes me. All thousands of it. It's not a big sum, but a debt is a debt. 'Nuff said.
Now, whenever he's around I feel like the world is a rusty car exhaust. One word: nicotine. Cigar smell is everywhere! I swear, one of these days all smokers will just fall dead and when that happens I want to be right next to him so I could look down on him, in the eye, and say, "Finally."
Oh wait, that's too harsh...
Nah.
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