Although having fellow colleagues around you wallowing and whining over having to work on a weekend imbues you with a sense of camaraderie, nothing beats having the whole office to yourself, getting to blast your iTunes and singing along to Coldplay, pretending that you are Chris Martin spotlit on a darkened stage watched by a legion of breathless fans. You can eat your stinky garlic chicken pasta without fear of wrinkling noses and you can burp loud and vulgarly without any shocked exclamations bringing you crashing back down to earth. Of course the minute I finish typing that last sentence, Triplet#3 walks in and I have to lower the volume of my Itunes and hope that the stink of my last fart has dissipated. What the hell he’s doing here, I dunno. Dude, when you’ve started working on commercial jobs, then by all means, live in this office. While you’re still trying to figure out your life here, stay away and leave me to fart and sing in peace. You can chat with your girlfriend at home. Humph.
I’m a bit cranky I know. George kept waking me up last night with his yowling. As expected, he’d do it while looking at darkened corners making me imagine horrible, terrible things lurking there (isn’t it the Hungry Ghost Fest now? omg). I got my revenge my spraying him with holy water. That shut him up real good. You wanna sulk, Georgie? Fine, just keep your mouth shut while you’re at it.