If I redo your damn logo again, it’s going to say “I’ll SHOW YOU where to shove the Triangle, Bitch!

THEM: We don’t like the font you used for “Show Me” in our logo.
ME: You mean the one you picked out of a list of samples and approved, oh say 3 months ago, and then just LAST NIGHT told me looked PERFECT?
THEM: We’re thinking maybe we should just hire a graphic designer to do our site.
ME: No, I’m thinking maybe you should hire a psychic.

breathing exercises… deep breaths… long slow exhale… count to 10…

This afternoon, in a matter of 15 minutes, I think I got angrier at work than I’ve ever been. I was so fucking upset, I could tell my blood pressure was up. I felt like I was boiling, and there was no place to vent. Live… on the phone… with the little whiny mutha-bitch customer who continues to make my life hell since the first day I talked to him, back in October of last year. O C T O B E R . Pussy mutherfucking broker/owner won’t stand up to the other co-owners and make a fucking decision. He tells me, it’s perfect, go with it. Next day he tells me, they hate it, it’s wrong, start over. Since october… we have been trying to slay this fucking Hydra-beastie but there are just too many heads to please.

but… *sigh*… that was then. I ended the call. I stood up. I walked to the bathroom. I splashed cool water on my face and tried to breathe. Then I went to hunt down the fucking account manager to get this mutha-bitch off my back. I know I was still red-face pissed off while I was talking to Bobby and trying to sound reasonable. He apologized and got mad with me and swore to …. pass the buck. “I’ll have Patrick deal with him, I can’t handle him.” Fine. Whatever. Just get his whiny ass off of me. I’m never going to answer my fucking phone again, in case you were wondering. Never.

I told the account management manager (yes, that’s a title – it’s Patrick) that I had to get out of there to catch a plane to North Carolina to kill a man with my bare hands.

but… *sigh*… it’s Friday. Had “one more thing” to do for Carmen that HAD to be done before I could leave, which I immediately kicked all these people from around my desk so I could do, then I got out of there with a massive case of road rage to work out. Prolly used a quarter tank of gas from work to cheese. Fuck. It.

and then there was cheese… Cheese was good. Cheese was not whiny-mutha-bitches. Cheese was heavenly, and cheap, and therapeutic.

But now I’m so fucking tired I can’t keep my eyes open, and its barely after nine.