Of course life is not going to run smoothly. Because it just wouldn't be my life.
I heard some stand-up Chris Rock this holiday. What a guy. And one thing comes to mind:
Every woman in this world has a woman at her place of work that she doesn't get on with. Even if she folds jeans at JC Penney for a living, she'll come home and say, "That bitch is out to destroy me!"
Touche, Chris Rock.
I hate my editor. The bitch is out to destroy me.
I have been back at work for a week. Along with most of my other colleagues. My editor, after a week of being MIA, waltzes in yesterday with the kind of laissez faire attitude that makes me want to slam dunk her head through a basketball hoop.
No explanations of where she's been. No apologies. And no interrogations by the publisher - the big boss - as to her whereabouts because well, we all think she gives him head after hours.
We fucked up on a picture caption for a story. I say 'we' because although it was my picture and my caption, she's the fucking editor and probably should have picked this up after 20 more years of experience than me. Yet she tried to fob this all onto me saying: "There's only one of me (Peas.) I can't pick up everything you know."
And I suppose there are two of me you stupid cow. What she neglects to bring up of course, is that I write practically the entire magazine while she writes essays for her honours degree, goes to the Radium Beer Hall at lunch to quaff gin and tonics, then go on a shopping spree. She'll spend a week out of a month actually doing some work, which involves proofing the magazine for errors (such as this fuck up) and laying it out.
Then she has the balls to tell me and the publisher she has no time. The publisher will believe her because she's giving him head. (90% certain anyway.)
The bitch is out to destroy me. And somehow she's getting away with it.