I patted myself on the back for not flying into an unbridled rage with XXXXXXX who is paid a very tidy sum to manage but who systematically fucks things up and pisses everyone off in the ensuing car-crashes.
I counselled myself that, were I to say what I thought at volume, I would probably be marked down for the sack when the next prunings felch. I managed to express my frustrations at the mounting ineptitude in a gorgeously assertive yet conciliatory way instead.
I copped out, I guess. So I went and punched a changing room.
(Not really).
Meanwhile I press on shagged out completely and PRAY for July 17 when my holiday will start and the screams and squeaks of little darlings will cease.
How are things with you, then?
I counselled myself that, were I to say what I thought at volume, I would probably be marked down for the sack when the next prunings felch. I managed to express my frustrations at the mounting ineptitude in a gorgeously assertive yet conciliatory way instead.
I copped out, I guess. So I went and punched a changing room.
(Not really).
Meanwhile I press on shagged out completely and PRAY for July 17 when my holiday will start and the screams and squeaks of little darlings will cease.
How are things with you, then?
Comment