Where I Swear A Lot - Again
Have you ever been continuously arse-fucked by a boil-ridden, rancid-hobo-piss-reeking monster, with three rotating, giant metal pineapples for a dick? I have. Fondly, I call it This Past Week.
I'm not sure which of you cheeky bastards slipped a mickey in my cordial to make me wake up in la-la land, but, rest assured, I am building you a special level of Hell in my back shed. What a total fuckturd of a week. I'm so mentally shattered that I cannot even swear proper (this might be a good time to sink in the boot, if you'd had the inclination for a while).
Today was spent at Stephen's flat - with his parents and two sisters - going through his things. Much has been revealed over the past few hours, such as how many years he had planned for this event (6), who he went to see when visiting in Chicago (!?!?) late last year (a secret 'girlfriend', who may have known of his plans?!?), and the eventuality of receiving and reading his last to-the-hour journal, found in the San Fran hotel room. Stephen had a box in his apartment filled with journals, dating back well over a decade. His entire life is completely, utterly documented. Despite being told to take anything that I wished from the tiny apartment, I felt invasive and rude. Eventually I left with a large folder filled with our extensive correspondence from over the years (he had such issue with swear words, even from a very young age, that he cut out all the swear words in my letters...as you can imagine, I now have a folder filled with shredder refuse and mutilated tissue paper), and some CDs that we'd sent back and forth. I'm still too much in shock to be fully with it, really. Truly, it's been a bizarre day.
But it just got weirder. A few hours ago, I got a call from the ex-boss. I'd sent him a curt (yet non-aggressive) letter on Wednesday in relation to my seemingly unfair dismissal, which he'd received today. He tells me that even before receiving the letter he'd been considering that he'd overreacted somewhat, and that he'd like for me to come back. He asked me a few questions, such as how I felt about the whole thing ("humiliated"), and gave good apology. So, should I choose, I can contact him over the weekend and let him know that i'll be back at my desk on Tuesday morning. He'll even pay me for this week gone, where I sat at home waxing my monkeybits and watching all 26+ hours of The World At War whilst stuffing my sad face with grapes and kalamata olives. If I do decide to go back (and let's face it, I don't exactly have prospective employers lined up at my door), i'm going to make a point of telling him that the next time he fires me, he should do it in private*.
What do you think?
End result of this shitty, shitty week, of unbelievable ups and predominantly arse-biting downs? I'm Totally. Fucking. Bollocksed.
P.S. I thought I could eat an entire 300 gm tin of revolting self-saucing chocolate pudding for dinner tonight. Fool be me. I'm the crappest binge eater, ever.
And I don't even like chocolate.
* Unfunny joke.