Dearest Diary, I love my fucking job. Every day is something new, something unexpected. Like today. I got home from work around 11pm. My Boss decided to leave early (2pm), since it was Tuesday, and he doesn’t really do work on Tuesdays. But he wanted me to be sure that “he didn’t miss any calls.” So I stayed for another 9-ish hours. Sure, I know that I could have probably forwarded the phone, but I heard that his last PA did that. Didn’t work out too well. So I like to stick around late. For My Boss. After I got home, and got ready for bed, I got a phone call on my “emergency line.” From My Boss. “You need to come fucking pick me up right now.” I grab my keys, sprint out the car, and make the 35 mile trek to Santa Monica (I live in Pasadena). Didn’t take too long, a little less than an hour. When I got there, he was sitting on a curb. He wiped some puke from his chin.
“Finally,” he slurred. I opened the car for him, and he stumbled in, completely hammered. I looked at him, “This is why you wanted me to pick you up? Because you’re drunk?” But he kept staring at the dashboard in front, a vacant expression of privileged success. Then he turned to me: “I’m the fucking executive producer of Midget vs. Robot. Don’t fucking tell me--” and he gurgled, and puked on my lap. “This isn’t really part of my job description.” “Then you’re fired.” After two blocks, he got off my lap, wiped more puke from his chin, and screamed out: “STOP!” I slammed on my brakes. “We’re here.” He stumbled towards a building with a neon-lit dancing kitty above the door.
And as I sat there in idle outside the Dancin’ Slut Strip Club, hands on the steering wheel, at 12:16am on Wednesday morning, I thought of my life, and my parents, who think following my dreams is “really admirable,” and my Boss’ puke that was gently warming my testicles. I love my fucking job.
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