Somebody Kill Me Now 2

Saturday. Two thirty-four in the morning. Spent nine hours locked in a windowless 5x10 office trying to make sense out of sales reports that seemed to have been made while under the influence of weed, navigating my way through a stack of invoices and checks needing my john hancock, and punching numbers into a geriatric calculator to figure out whether we've got enough money to tide us over through next week. The boss is away on vacation until the end of the month, and so is the second-in-command. Any work that those two couldn't pre deep-six now gets shunted over to me and I am so glad for the extra work that it's perfectly fine that I have to come in for an extra day every week. NOT. I feel like I've just been kicked into the fireplace by the two ugly stepsisters. It gets worse. I'm not even Cinderella, I really am just the scullery maid. If you cleaned me up and stuffed me into a padded ball gown and my feet into glass slippers, I'd still be fugly. Worse yet? The prince is really only interested in the shoes.


Thou shalt love Mark Ronson, if there's nobody else.