Dear Electronic Diary Thingy,
I hate my boss. Why? Why, you ask, am I capable of such burning, twisted, brutal emotions? I’m not. Not usually. But when the guy asks me to get him specific socks because the last ones I bought weren’t soft enough, what am I supposed to do? Also, who orders a gluten-free bagel and skinny soy, decaf latte? Doesn’t that DEFEAT the purpose of it all? I have been asked for both of these things. Repeatedly. And I have to go order them and stand in line and look like a huge dork when I pick them up. Other strange requests have included cauliflower pizza with vegan cheese (no, he’s not vegan. I know this because he made me order him chili with extra meat and extra spice—and FYI, I hope it burned coming out), a tuna sandwich with avocado and sprouts (extra gross!), poutine with sardines on it (like seriously, WTF?), and some weird protein powder that cost $458 a can. I think the guy’s innards are going to rot out. Just because you’re rich, do you have to eat such gross things? Not that he never orders anything good. The times he does, though, I have a small confession to make. One time I licked some of the cheese on his pizza. It looked good, and I was starving. I just needed that little bit of extra grease to get me back to the office. Oh, and what’s up with the low-fat mayo? Like why even bother? I get regular mayo every single time. So far, he hasn’t noticed. Probably because it tastes AMAZING! Shouldn’t that be a tip-off, though? You’d really think so.
Signing off for today, end of rant,
Sutton
My cheeks hurt, and I realize I’ve been grinning the entire time. I keep reading, scanning through the entries, and picking out little bits and pieces about me here and there. I can’t help myself.
Philippe Wilson is the devil.
I guess it’s unanimous. It’s generally what everyone thinks about me.
Who eats pickled beets? I swear, this guy probably Dutch ovens his office when no one is around with all the gut rotting horrible foods he eats.
I think Philippe has a secret obsession with plants. Who else installs a jungle on the side of the office building just so he can have a leisurely stroll every single afternoon? #Mybosshumpsplants
Philippe’s mom calls and leaves really weird messages. Often with me. Doesn’t she know I don’t know how her son’s love life is going, and I’d never want to? Gag me. If he was the last man on earth…okay, I don’t know where I’m going with that. Just yeah. I’d rather let the species go extinct than reproduce firebreathing dragon evil grumpy boss babies with him. So no, I don’t actually know or care, who his girlfriend is. Side note—thank goodness he doesn’t make me order flowers or like panties or something for her. If she even exists. I highly doubt it, though. Who could put up with him if they had a choice? Even the hardiest gold digger wouldn’t go for that.
Why is Philippe’s name Philippe? Like, he’s seriously not French. Neither is his mom. I’ve heard her on the phone. I know his dad wasn’t either. So what the heck? Why not just plain old Phillip like every other normal person in the world??????
My boss thinks he’s so perfect that he can defy the laws of physics. If he shoved the ingredients for a cake up his ass, an entire, perfect, flawlessly-iced cake would come out of his mouth like a legitimate eighth wonder of the world. #Cakemiracles.
Today, Philippe made me order him new boxers. Christ. Have. Mercy. It’s a record new low. I’m tempted to get wool. Scratchy. Horrible. Wool. How would the old balls like that? Also a new low. Having to think about my boss’ junk. #SoFuckingGross.
Doesn’t Philippe know that by driving a vehicle which costs more than most people’s houses, he’s seriously rubbing our noses in it and everyone likes him even less than they already do? By the way, I think neon green is a gross color. How can he even drive that? Oh right, because he wants everyone to look at him and notice that he’s hot shit.
I’m pretty sure Philippe doesn’t have pets. He couldn’t manage to keep a cactus alive, and cactuses don’t die.
If my boss gives me another report on a Friday afternoon to have to him on Monday morning, I’m going to lose my shit.
Shit lost. Report demands just came in.
Got asked to book a trip to Hawaii for said evil boss. For a week. I know for a fact that the conference for work is only two days. Must be nice to be super freaking rich. Silver spoon much?
I’m pretty sure if Philippe breathed on me, his breath would smell like weird decaf skinny latte and poop. Just a thought.