Monday, January 3, 2011

Day Eleven. FUCKING REALLY?

I hate this fucking job. Really I do.
This is my day:
  • An agent got snippy with me because I didn't have the coffee ready, um really? People are dying across the globe because they haven't eaten in weeks, get your own fucking coffee.
  • Another agent asked me if I wanted her 83 year old dead mother's clothes because she couldn't bear to throw them away. I was actually speechless. Unless her mother is a slender 40 year old trapped in a 80 year old's body than no fucking way. Are you kidding me? Insulted on many many many levels.
  • I visited my mother at lunch and she asked me if I gained weight - why is this revelant to my job? Because if I wasn't working I'd be at the fucking gym.
Oy. To. The. Vey.

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