There's a dirty syringe outside my office building that I pass every morning walking from the bus and I always think to myself: 'Yay, dirty syringe' or silently sing myself a song about it--(Dur-tee Sa-reh-inge!) I think I would actually be pretty sad if it disappeared one day. My co-worker Justin turns 26 on Saturday and has harassed me every day for the last six months about baking him a cake. (Boston Cream Pie to be exact) All of our insults toward each other are based around this cake I owe him, how him and D are secretly gay for each other, or about my 'fuzzy plant' (African violet) that he used to send death threats to before it actually died.

Anyways, I was actually prepared to finally bake this cake and maybe stuff mini bottles of Jack Daniel's into it, but then he told me he wasn't coming into work tomorrow because he was starting his birthday intoxication tonight. So I told him that was it and that now he was getting his cake with the dirty syringe embedded into it and he told me that would be great because he was really looking forward to scoring some std's this weekend. The whole day was more or less centred around the dirty syringe or the box of 100 razorblades that was on sale in the business flyer and how we needed to order them so every cube could have an emergency wrist slashing 'cry for help' kit.

I love my job.

Labels: NaBloPoMo, work