Tuesday, May 22, 2007

I wanted to tell you the story of the little girl and the former pigeon. But, I can't. I'm mad. I'm shaking with rage. I am inflamed with the fiery passions of a thousand suns. All hyperbole aside, I am livid. Tonight, while I was away from my bar, in the bathroom, my boss picked up my cell phone, and sent a text message to my roommate, telling her to not text me anymore. Let me repeat that last bit: he picked up my phone, and sent a message out, as me. I cannot even describe the lava in my veins right now. My ears are bright red. My cheeks are flushed. And my hair is a mess, because I keep grabbing my head, and going "why would he ever...how could he...is he really...". I have lost the ability to formulate coherent thoughts. I want to punch my boss in his nose. I want to go to the Old Monk, where I know that he is sitting at this moment, and scream in his face. I want to super-glue all the locks on his sports car. I cannot believe I defended him earlier this evening, when he got busted printing out an email that someone had inadvertently left up on the computer. Saying, "well, it was a dick move to print it out, but it was left up there for the whole world to see." What a turd!

To touch my phone is unacceptable. I had to replace two of them because The Flake quite literally ripped them apart. Ever since that, I don't want anybody to touch my phone. And I just got this one today. Not because anybody ripped my old one apart. It just stopped working. Whatever. That's not the point.

Seriously, unless I hand it to you, you should never put your hands on my phone. Or anything that is my personal, private property. Don't touch my purse. Don't touch my wallet. And don't ever fucking touch my phone.