After The Storm

Now that Thing Two and I are pretty much settled into our new place and L has accepted the position at my office, things are looking up. I feel more at home and comfortable (if we could secure some effing cable and a DVR so I can watch Jersey Shore before my heart collapses! Sheesh! What’s a girl have to do to get some New Jersey trash in her LIFE?) and with L starting the job on Monday, I am confident that some of this crazy is bound to die down.

Work has been a complete clusterfuck for about the last four months but just about three weeks ago, they fired the idiot who was replacing Spliff in her previous position because it was becoming evident that The New Girl couldn’t speak/spell correctly and was very loud at inappropriate moments in every conversation. And, well, did everything wrong also. So, naturally, since Spliffany and I basically do the same thing, instead of divvying up the duties, I was informed that they would just be…you know…all mine. Which has been fun, considering I work 4 ten hour days per week now and really sort of want to kill myself…daily. So, I have been praying for someone with computer skills, some knowledge of the English language and possibly, just possibly, a personality. I promptly convinced L that this is a great place to work (which it typically is, when all the work isn’t being dumped on you) and that she would fit in great (hello? Lesbian.)  So, now she’s got the job and is looking for an apartment as we speak to get back to our little beach town. She may have just saved my life. And possibly the lives of several of my coworkers.

Spliff and I are even getting along better. Don’t get me wrong. I still don’t want to see her outside of work and I still haven’t even mentioned that I am dating Thing Two (or, you know, living with him) because I still don’t want her in my life. At least, not any more than she has to be when she is all up in my grill every day at work. But we talk at work. And occasionally, I will get a text from her over the weekend when something is hilarious or whatever. And I am totally good with that. As long as the texts don’t turn into phone calls or dinners or, you know, that stuff. But I can tolerate her. And mostly, I don’t want to hit her with my car. Unless I think about this. Or the abbrev. But especially this. And then, folks, right back to square one.

Right now, though, I am actually worried about her. She might have appendicitis and has been out of the office all day going from doctor to doctor and blood test to radiology test. If I were still her friend, I would be there with her because that’s what I do for my friends and it is what I have always done for her. And I feel bad that she is somewhere across town alone, sending me pictures of her IV. (Yes. She is actually doing that. Because I love needles. No. Wait, that is the opposite of true.) See? Totally not a heartless bitch. Truth is, I guess I still care. (As long as no one mentions Pearl Jam. And then she’d be lucky if I didn’t yank that needle out and stick her in the eye.) At least enough to not want her to have to have emergency surgery.