�I should wake up, right?
�Seeing that I have to get my lazy bum up and do something productive with my life. But I need to get a cup of coffee first. Yes, coffee is a given. Need my caffeine before even trying to get into happy little newspaper slave mode. Damn, I need to get changed first. Maybe into my new pencil skirt I had bought last weekend with Nikki and those pretty little Jimmy Choo shoes that are sitting in the back of my closet or are they in my car? Oh God, I need my god damn coffee.� What's today? Okay, so last night I went to dinner with Brody at The Garden or was it McDonalds? Very nice place, I think. The waiters were top notch, they were even subtle when looking down my dress… or was I wearing a shirt? Oh who cares, all I know I was wearing something very cute. Oh, and the cheesecake was to die for, almost orgasmic even. And the music…wow. So romantic, he really did know how…
�Wait. Back on topic. So last night was dinner and the night before I had lunch with Samira and we had ordered our usual Saturday specials at the deli. Saturday subs, Sunday night dinner with Brody which means it's Monday. Great. Fantabulous. Just supper duper. It is the beginning of the week and I already feel as if I have been run over by a truck and have been left on the road to die a slow and painful death.
��Dramatic, I know.
�But it does not help the fact that I have to head over to a job that I sort of hate, I think. I am little miss intern reporter for a small newspaper in Toronto. You know, the free ones found in the corner next to those auto magazines that no one ever even picks up. Yeah, I work for that shit. Really, my dream was to be one of those columnists that went out every night and wrote about all the cool things happening in the city.
�Picture Carrie in her designer shoes and outfits talking about sex. Yes, that is what I imagined. Since this city is filled with nearly three million people it can lead to some great writing. Right now, in my crap-tastic job, you wouldn't even call me a reporter! I am an intern which translates to getting everybody coffee and being left to do everybody else's dirty work. Last week I had to get their dry cleaning, had to edit everyone's articles and then was left to shred some documents that were stored for nearly ten years…or five.
�I don't want to get up. I really don't. I just wish my coffee would just magically appear right on my night table, and maybe a bit of aspirin. I feel a big migraine coming soon.
��Need to get up.
�You can do it Jimena. I'm going to do it in steps. First I need to take these covers off me, even if they are nice and toasty warm. Egyptian cotton to be exact. Cost a fortune. Shame for my daddy whose credit card I used to charge them on. Okay, now attempting to place my feet on the floor and continue on with the morning. Feet are close, close, close…
Cold! The fucking floor is cold. I don't want to do this anymore. I am going to lie here and just call in sick. That's it, I'm going to call in sick and then I am going to call Brody and ask him if he can bring over some Starbucks mocha lattes. I just met the guy last week while waiting for Nikki to come out of the ladies room. Normally I would go with her, but it was only a single stall and it did smell like an obscene amount of urine with a hint of pot. He was talking on his phone over at the cashier while paying for his things, which hit me quite odd seeing that we were in a lingerie boutique.
�First instinct was that he had a girlfriend, and those thongs where simply not for him to wear (although I must admit, I find it totally hot). But the way he was smiling at me definitely didn't translate 'taken' so I went in for the kill. We talked for a few minutes, exchanging phone numbers before parting ways as I headed back to Nikki. She was tapping her pointy bright pink heels at me, pissed for leaving her for what seemed like a lifetime. Her words not mine. I don't really blame her though, it was her time of the month and she usually got crabby and had those very spontaneous mood swings.
�I was grown accustomed to her schedule, personal schedule to be exact. By next week she was bound to explode once she saw the piece of dark root right at the back of her head. Nikki, originally Nicola, my best friend for three years since I had moved to Toronto from Baltimore, Maryland. A big change since I was eighteen and heading to college to experience life. I was instantly attracted to her, in a friendly way of course. (I don't swing that way).
�We were in the same English course taught by some balding professor who loved wearing those printed tropical shirts, the kinds usually found in those tourist spots having the large name of the city visited right on the front. Yeah, he was wearing one of those kinds of shirts that I hated. Barf. She nudged me and pointed over at him, snickering when he turned to write on the large white board. And that was that. BFF's ever since, growing up into woman hood even though we didn't manage to get spots at the same job.
�While I was working for the shit, she had managed to blow the interviewers away at a high end fashion magazine, GLAM, giving her the opportunity to learn about what she loved best. Clothes, clothes and more clothes. She's and intern as well, but my god. I would kill to be her right now. Kill.
�Oh my gosh, I just remembered! I forgot to return Kill Bill Vol.1 to Blockbusters. Damn it, now I have to pay those stupid late fees.
�Stupid fees. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
�What was I talking about? Snap! That's right, Brody bringing coffee and calling in sick. I think right now is the best time to mention a bad habit of mine. I am forgetful. I am, really. I suffer from C.R.S (Can't Remember Shit). �There are times where things go through one ear and come out the other. But there are times where I do remember, usually minutes, hours or even days after. Bad, I know. Also, I can get pretty out of it. I mean really out of it. I daydream or get caught up in my own little world where Jimena James rules the world and have enough money in my bank account to take a trip to the Bahamas.
�So things to do that I currently remember:
1. Call in sick.
2. Then call boy toy to come over.
3. Ask him to bring over some coffee while he's at it.
�Call in sick, boy toy, coffee. Call in sick, boy toy, coffee. Call in sick, boy toy, coffee. Call boy, sick coffee and get toy.
�No, that can't be right?
�Call boy? Oh…boss. Call boss because I am sick… fake sick. Cough. Cough. Yeah, maybe even add in some sneezes here and there.
�Brody, need to call him for some coffee. Wait? Do I have coff… no, I'm going ask him to get the coffee. Okay, need to do that to. And what about Nikki? Nikki is… whatever. She'll understand if I don't remember to do what I am supposed to do with her, or not do with her.
�Now my brain is full. Very full.
�And now I hear Justin Timberlake.
�Justin! Oh Justin baby, cry me a river! ����
�Wait…why do I hear Justin?
�Have I gone crazy? Maybe it's because of my sick coffee? Maybe…
�A blue light catches my eyes as I turn to look at my night stand. My blackberry is ringing with my Sexy Back ring tone. Oops, my mistake. Reaching over I grasped the tiny piece of technology not bothering to look at my caller ID. Big mistake.
�"Jimena James." I answered slowly letting my feet touch the hardwood floor, silently cursing as my heel meet the flat surface feeling the cold travel up my leg. A tingle in my spine.
�"Where the hell are you? Please, for the love of my new nose, please tell me that you are on the subway heading over here." His voice was begging for me to say yes, a voice that I recognized. Was it Bob? Big? Billy? Bar…
�"Jime? You there or have forgotten how to speak?" Now the voice seemed pissed off, gay and pissed. Reminded me of Will, from Will and Grace of course. And how dare he say that I cannot speak. That was just…rude. No one should ever be told such a thing. Maybe I should tell him this. Maybe I should actually talk. Prove him wrong. Yeah, I should, as soon as I remember his name.
�"I'm assuming your trying to find your brain floating around in the large head holding capacity, so I'm just going to say this and you better listen well here missy. Boss surprisingly notices when you are not here on time and is bitching to me because of it. Now…"
�His words mean nothing to me at the moment. Damn, what is his name?
�"…coffee and some donuts. Not that supermarket crap, get real…"
�"…edit some articles, and don't use those girly pink pens…"
�Kevin, Ken, Kenny…
��"…interview at one o'clock with a eighty year old woman who had just gave birth to a baby…"
��Maybe it's something exotic like….oh his name must be John!
�"John?" I asked cutting off the rising volume of his voice easily heard even if my phone was situated in the other room.
�"It's Christian," an irritated sigh following his answer, "have you not been listening to a word I've been saying?"
�I could lie, that would get me into less trouble but then that would just lead him to make me summarize what he had just yelled. I did not comprehend or even hear any words, just different sound all mashed into one.
�"Err…no." I mumbled.
�"Just…just be here in the next twenty minutes or else you are on probation. This has happened far too many times." He snapped before I heard the dial tone.
�I was just yelled out by my boss before getting coffee, and I didn't even get my chance to play sick. That was the plan, I actually remembered, even though I was late in actually coming through with it. Sigh. I need coffee. Brody was suppose to get me coffee. Where is Brody?
�That's right, I didn't call him. There was no time in between this verbal argument in my head and getting in trouble by…Jewish. Work, I have to head to work and learn to be a writer or in my case just be in the presence of some mediocre ones who spend more time reading the comics than the actual news in the city. This is the time where I do have to get up and actually go because stupid forgot to act sick when he called.
�No staying home. No boy. No coffee.
�Walking through the city at eight in the morning can be a real hassle. At this hour it is when the majority of Torontonians walk out of their houses and apartments to go to their destination. School kids walk in side by side practically blocking off most of the sidewalk for the rest of us, those cant-stop-for-time business men on their cell phones on Queen Street trying to get to the office before the rush hour soon becomes an overload in population. Ally, the hobo who usually sits at the corner of Younge and Eglinton has to resort to sitting on a window sill since his little home consisting of a paper box and cart of garbage seems to be pissing off the people. Poor little poor man.
�"Oh look at that poor bastard." I hear an old woman and her friend say as they pass him in pure horror. Sure they have that sweet little grandmother fa�ade making it sound like an innocent remark. But I know what they mean. What little bitches.
�As I walk down the longest street in the city, Younge Street, I curse to myself seeing that this is the busiest place to ever be at the time. My heels are clicking on the hard ground, every few seconds I look down in case I step in a crack which can lead to an embarrassing fall. Instead of that pencil skirt that I was planning to wear(or was it a dress?), I know have on some dark washed jeans, a cute white blouse that I had gotten from the Petit section of the department store. Usually I would have gone to where the normal sized clothes were, the Petit section only good enough for the woman without an ass and has a waist the size of normal peoples thighs.
�I am proud to say I am one of them. But it didn't come easy, no siree. Try spending a whole day eating those Weight Watcher food items, which are really just normal food for midgets. Those herbal teas, well I drank a whole box once and as a side note, don't ever do it. It seems that there's this chemical in it that makes you quite drowsy at times.
�Anyways, what was I saying?
�Right, so back to my nice white blouse, it totally looks good on me. It says I'm twenty and professional, the jeans putting this 'I'm also casual' looks. The heels…well they are saying nothing right now but causing me some embarrassment as they step into a deep ol' crack. A crack that is supposed to be filled with that substance those workers use to prevent girls like me from falling in a busy street. Didn't anybody consider the dangers it can provide to the civilians!
�I fall to the ground; my bottom sitting on what I think is some dried up gum. My right leg is up in the air (happy I didn't wear the skirt after all) and my battered black bag and contents are scattered on the ground. Great. Just great. Notice my sarcasm dripping with a death note to whoever is in charge of making sidewalks. Embarrassment trumps over pain as my face turns cherry red, I can already feel heat running over my face and perspiration starting to form in places you don't even want to know.� And yet, nobody dares to stop and help me. Nobody! They can look at me and laugh but they can't stop. Seriously!
�A group of teenage boys passes by engrossed in a conversation.
�"Yo dude, I'm going to get a cheese burger…without any cheese."
�"But…wouldn't that just be a…hamburger?" the other replies.
�"Oh, snap! That's right." They all start to chuckles as they pass me.
�All I want to do is just yell "Hey, look down here. I love burgers too, with or without cheese. Now please help me!" This is pissing me off, as well as I am now craving some fast food at eight in the morning. This is one thing I hope I forget before I walk into work. One thing that I do not want in my mind for the next thirteen hours of hell.
�I'm still sitting on the dirty ground as I try to get myself up on my feet, eyeing my new lip gloss and my Black Berry scattered around me, people's quick steps very close to coming in contact with my prized possessions. Groaning I wiped my hand on my jeans, my feet wobbly at first as I heightened to my 5'7 figure. My sandy blonde hair was probably a mess after I had straightened it with an iron. Not one of those curling irons. A real iron used to for clothes, since the one used for hair seemed to have been broken. Trust me, it was a hard job to get me looking the way I did and then only having it ruined when day had barely started. �
�I bent down picking up my lip gloss I got from…a place where they sell them. Very expensive. Equivalent to my phone bill for the apartment making it the first thing to get off the cold hard ground where, I, being walked around by a bunch of school girls and their kilts ending right at their crotch. Now their giggling about something, maybe their laughing at me. But who cares. Now I need to get my Black Berry before someone gets their hand on it and uses the 'finders keepers' tactic on me.
�Before I even know it disappears. It actually disappears from my sight! Where…holy crap where is it? It was right in front of me and then those girls had to walk by. Damn little rich girls with their TNA bags and those feet baring Uggs. My head turned left, then right trying to catch a glimpse of my baby worth six hundred dollars including all those ringbones and background I hate bought.
�Oh god, I'm going to have one of those panic attacks. What do I do? What do I do!? I...I remember reading something about this in Cosmo the other day. Well…actually the article was 'How to Prevent Sexual Frustration' or was it 'How to Prevent PMSing', but it's practically the same thing.
�First breathe in.
�I feel like everything around me is moving too quickly. Everything is so loud. The cars, the people talking on their cell phones (lucky bitches), construction workers working on the new towers, dogs barking and shitting everywhere where it clearly states 'DO NOT WALK ON GRASS'. My breaths are coming out uneven. Work is the last thing on my mind. But what is on my mind is the fact that I have some very personal pictures in that Black Berry. Pictures that would be very close to Pamela but a little farther from Britney, if you know what I mean. If some random stranger gets their hand on it I am…
�Crap, I feel something on my shoulder. Is the world caving in on me now? No…it's a hand…tapping me. Phew, I breathed a sigh of relief.
�Now what I am wondering is whose hand is touching me…and where is my Black Berry baby?!
�"Excuse me miss, I believe this is yours." Now I am guessing the voice is coming from the man whose hand is on my shoulder. Makes complete sense. Turning around, my hair whipping right in front of my face from the bus that had passes by, causing me to shriek at the inconvenience. The man chuckled, a deep laugh that came from deep inside. A mix of Patrick Dempsey and George Clooney…gosh their both to die for. The other night after coming home from my date with…Brady, I just plopped myself on the couch and watched reruns of the medical drama. Was it Grey's Anatomy or ER? Who cares, either one of them are both sexy as hell playing doctors. I wouldn't mind…
�"Miss, are you alright? You seem to be…" I felt the weight of his hand leave my shoulder. My eyes couldn't help but follow the retreat back to his body. For the first time in that minute I casted my attention to the man. Wow. He's wearing faded jeans and a white shirt collared shirt covered by a maroon jumper. As I travel upwards I notice the small smirk playing on his laps, light stubble and light blue eyes amused. That's when I realize that the hand that was once on me is now right against his mouth, as if he pointing something…
�Oh no! He was trying to tell me that I'm drooling.
�He probably thinks I'm a dog who's probably panting in this July heat. Quickly I lift the back of my hand to my face wiping my saliva off, a deep blush coming across my face. Now this is where I wish nobody would stop and help me, specifically sexy man in front of me. Pushing back a lock of my hair I smiled nervously up at him, trying to act as lady like as possible. "Sorry 'bout that." I quickly said. I cannot meet his eyes or I will die. I'll probably drool some more.� Is this what hot flashes feel like?
�Before I could even continue on with my mental conversation with myself, the strangers hand reached forward, my Black Berry in his hand.
�"Oh, th…thanks. You're a life saver." I gently smiled taking it into my custody briefly checking to see if there were any scratches or marks on my baby.
�"Err, lifesaver? I don't think so. I was just at the right place at the right time I suppose." He chuckled, running a hand through his dark brown, (almost black), hair. "So…bye."
�That was it. I didn't even get his name and he was already walking down the busy sidewalk, his hands in his jean pockets. Kicking myself for not even getting his digits I placed my tiny piece of electronics into my purse, safe and sound in its home. As I continued on with my journey down Younge Street heading off to work, a name kept on popping in my head. A name that I heard before, and probably even knew a face that was called this name.
��For those fifteen minutes I traveled to my destination (which I think is work) all I could think of is…Brody who?
"You're in trouble."
�Way to point out the obvious. I was already in trouble when I was still at my apartment wearing my soft blue pajamas and plotting another one of my, cough, calling in fake sick fa�ade. Now, I was ten minutes late. Glancing at the glass wall I saw my reflection. My hair was decent, although some strands were turning into complete mavericks, the bottom of my black jeans where dirty from my fall and I really needed to get my make up in order. Maybe some of that new MAC foundation as well as this nude colored gloss that would look perfect with my sort of tanned complexion. Oh, and some mascara, although I definitely need to stick with black or my green eyes would look rather 'cat' like in…
�"Woohoo! Jime, this isn't the time vacation over at la-la land." Samira cautioned as she stopped typing on her desk top. She worked at the front desk as a secretary for the two years I have known her. She was the opposite of me. The organizer who planned her day out and kept post it notes everywhere incase she needed to jot down a task that needed to be completed that day. And there she goes again. Briskly picking up a bright pink post it, she scribbled down a brief check mark that probably read something like 'tell Jimena the obvious and make her seem dense' or something like that.
�Don't get me wrong, she is a great girl but there are times where our different personalities clash and we end up fighting over the most ridiculous things. I was going to make an effort an not start something that morning seeming I had other things on my mind. Work being number one.
�"So, how are you today?" I asked as I briskly waked over to the lifts pressing down the button, Samira following close behind, her arms filled with files.
�"I am just great, although I've been wondering who the new journalist is going to be. Last I heard, Alicia just got fired for doing more than an interview, if you know what I mean." She suggested with the hitch of her tweezed eyebrow.
�And I did. Alicia was known as the office slut as she couldn't keep her legs closed for more than a minute. Never really liked her since she was the one person who would make me buy her condoms while the others would usually just ask me to pick up dry cleaning for the most part. Poor little promiscuous girl.
�The ding of the opening elevator revealed a few employees soon leaving the lift empty for Samira and I to occupy. "How did I not know about this?"
�"You did, remember I told you last on Saturday at the deli. Which really doesn't surprise me since you seem to forget everything." She sighed.
�"I do not." Yeah I do.
�"Yes you do. I can understand it if you were an eighty year old woman who had stage one Alzheimer's but this is just crazy Jime. You need to get into the feel of things, change your lifestyle if you really want to be taken seriously here." She scolded her brown eye boring into my form that just wanted to shrivel up and die. She had a way of making people feel bad. I had forgotten about this.
�"But I'm not like you. Having things all penciled in would just be boring. What happened to carpe doom?" There, I added a little Italian, which I learned from a class I took a few months ago. Although I did drop out after I had learned all the dirty words, because really…everything sound much more better in Italian…or maybe French?
�"It's carpe diem." she corrected.
�"Same thing. My point, just go with the flow. And besides, my memory can't be that bad."
The elevator opened and there standing with and uptight constipated look on his face was my boss. The same guy who yelled at me not to long ago on my Black Berry.
�"Jewish!" I greeted.
Apparently calling a Catholic a Jew is bad. In my offense though, I thought his name was Jewish, never did I imply that he was Jewish. The sad part is, I still don't remember his name.
�"I think…no, I know my exact words were be here in twenty minutes. It's been forty five minutes and my boss has already ridden my ass, in a not so pleasurable way that I am use to…" Mumbling the last part under his breath. Now I remember, he's gay. Now his comment is disturbing me and I cannot get these mental pictures out of my head.
�"…you are on probation which mean you will be sorting out articles into the appropriate categories and then file them alphabetically. I was going to let you help out on an interview but…"
�I can't stop staring at his eyebrows. They are like two furry caterpillars permanently attached to his face. Sooner or later they are going to form a cocoon and metamorphoses into a living beast, and hopefully eat his alive. He's a little pudgy. It's a good things there are two, or one if you count the hairs that are meeting at the center of his forehead right above the bridge of his crooked nose.
�"…this is very important and is needed to provide everyone with orga…"
�Oh no, it's the O word. A word that can make me scream at the top of my lungs.
�A word that makes my toes curl and makes me shiver.
�He said it, oh god he said it.
�"Orga...organization?" I stuttered.
�"Yes, that's what I just said. Now go scurry off. I placed everything on your desk."
�He placed a landfill on my desk. Not a few stacks of paper, a damn landfill leaving me to sort out all the crap. Surrounding two sides of my small desk that is located right in the corner of the room is a small cubical while the rest of the reporters seem to occupy much more room with their nice oak fronts and spinning chairs.
�Now, I don't like them but I don't hate them either. They just exist in the same world we all share leaving me to tolerate their every move, which usually involves me doing the messy work. Now I would name each and every one of them, but I can't seem to think of their names. Lets just call them office horrors.
�My hands are suddenly numb flipping through pages and licking the tips of my fingers ever so often to open up a new paper file. Sooner or later I will have paper poisoning or some kind of after math from risking my health to these occupational hazards. Sighing I dug through my bag retrieving my Black Berry, pressing down speed dial.
�"Nicola speaking. Talk now or forever be black listed."
�"Well that's some way to answer your phone Nikki." I giggled silently cursing as I had cut my tiny finger with the edge of a sheet of paper.
�"I'm just frustrated. Allan has this phobic about sweating in bed and last night he blasted the air conditioner until his room was practically a freezer." She ranted. I could already hear her finger the pearls around her neck that I had gotten for her nineteenth or twentieth birthday.
�"I don't understand, why would you guys be sweat-" Now I realize what she had meant by 'sweating'.
�Bad images in my head.
�Bad, bad images.
�"Ohhhh." I replied
�"Exactly. Now how am I suppose to perform while he thinks about that?!"
�"Umm...well…I…it's kind of weird." I stumbled. How was I suppose to comment about that!
�"He's the weird one, which is why I'm breaking up with him tonight."
�"Tonight! Can't you guys work it out or something?" Why am I saying this. She should break up with him. From what I recall he is a kindergarten teacher. He probably sings Shirley Temple songs and makes jewelry out of his food.
�"I'm over it." She sighed. "I'm too young to be dealing with this, I miss high school days where everything was so much more simple." Says the girl who was known as class drama queen.
�"Yeah." I replied lamely looking down a the rest of my paperwork. Now I'm trying to figure out why I called her in the first place.
�"So, whatcha doing over at hell?" she laughed, mocking my state of employment while I envied hers.
�"You know the usual. Working on my tan and plotting evil ways to torture the innocent." I replied with the roll of my eyes.
�"Sarcasm does not suit you at all."
�"Now, why did you really call? Or are have you forgotten once again?"
�"You know me too well Nikki." I light�heartedly laughed. "I probably need to rant." I sighed brushing some stray stands away from my face.
�"About what? Work, boys, or the fact that you don't remember what you intended on ranting about in the first place leaving you to rant about not knowing what to rant about?"
�"What the hell did you just say?"
�"For your information smart ass, I do know what I want to rant about and that is my morning that I am currently dealing with." I stated dramatically. I really should have become an actress.
�"I have five minutes before my attention span runs out. Go."
�I told her about my morning and used a well good minute out of the five to curse about those fucking cracks between sidewalks. Which then lead me to my Black Barry baby and then him. Him. Gorgeous living and breathing creature who just walked away before I could even scan his profile thoroughly and picture our future children.
�The mystery man.
�"What about Brody?" Nikki interjected.
�Exactly, what the fuck about Brody?! Who the hell is this person that name pops in my head as soon as I think about my lifesaver.
�"Oh, Brody...wh…what about him?" I asked nonchalant. It was a good thing we were� communicating over a distance or she would have known I was lying through my teeth.
�"Last I heard you seemed to have hit it off the other night. Forget about him already?" Like you wouldn't believe.
�"Nope, but that doesn't mean I can't have options. I love options. Options are good."
�"Mmhm." She doesn't believe me.
�"And it's not like I'm going to see him again." I sighed at reality.
�"Mystery man." I answered. "Anyways he probably thinks I weird."
�"Why is that? I thought you barley spoke to him."
�"I…um...I kind of drooled."
�"Noooo…" she gasped in horror.
�"Yes." I admitted in complete embarrassment. Reliving the moment right now in my head folks. The heat, the smirk, my attempt to act normal as possible while having my ass covered in sidewalk crap. Why God, why did I have to remember this! "I wasn't exactly drooling over him, I was just-"
�"Thirsty." She interjected trying to hold back a fit of laughter. I knew she was.
�"Just laugh." I mumbled into the phone with a small pout on my face.
�"Al…almost." She giggled. "Ok, moment over. Sorry 'bout that."
�"No, no, it's quite alright. Really. I just love to be the source of humiliating mockery." I replied, sarcasm dripping with every word spoken.
�"Oh come on, don't worry about it. In the next few minutes or so you'll forget all about it, and the best way to do is to stop talking about this topic and move onto another one. I still have three more minutes."
�"Three minutes. Wow, shows how much you care for your best friend." I joked. "So, change of topic…"
�Think. Think. Think.
�"I've got one!" I replied too loudly only to receive a few disapproving looks from my other office mates. "I talked to Samira for a brief moment and she filled me on some not so old news."
�"Not so old news? Ok."
�"And rumor has it that the Office Slut just got fired and they have hired a new reporter to cover her."
�"Office slut, as in Alicia?"
�"The one and only." I replied with an eager nod. Did I mention that I have a huge dislike for that open legged freak. That I do.
�"Why? I knew she got around…" and is dirtier than a prostitute. "…but she's been doing that for a while. Why now?"
�"I don't know why." I quickly said not wanting to talk about Alicia specifically, but about the new reporter. "Anyways, do you know what this means."
�"Hum…you'll finally have your chance to be promoted." She answered in half question and have statement.� Now why didn't I think of that. It sounded much more appealing to what I had in mind.
�"No. That I don't have to buy her condoms anymore."
�Okay, now that sounded stupid.
�"That's great. Congratulations."
�"Thanks." I answered lamely. "Though yours sound much more better." I admitted.
�"And it might also be true. If you just talk to Christian maybe-"
�"That's his name!" I cut her off excitedly. Well no wonder I called him Jewish, it was only natural for me to choose a name so off base in both meaning and sound. This is so sad, my best friend (who doesn't even work here) knows my boss's name and I forget it on a daily basis. "Sorry continue." I mumbled forgetting all about my filing.
�"As I was saying," she huffed in annoyance which I knew was just an act, "talk to Christian and maybe he would consider promoting within rather than actually hiring someone else. You're literate, that's all they really care about." She concluded with optimism. Much more than I had in myself to say the least.
�"1. The guys hates me. I can't possibly come up to him to discuss furthering my career options since I'm not even done sorting out all this crap he's given me. 2. The only reason I'm still here is because I'm an intern. Interns don't get paid squat. If this were a paying job they would have fired me on my first week here. So it's pretty much a dead end right now." I explained, shifting in my hard wood seat, envious of my other workmates who had the pleasure of having their smelly rears on soft cushioned seats. "This sucks." I whined.
�"Sorry Jime." Nikki sympathized softly. "Just remember, all good things come to an end." Wow, such wise words that don't even comprehend my situation.
�"That doesn't make me feel better. You're actually making me dread the future." I groaned into my phone, my elbows resting on a smaller pile of articles.
�She giggled slightly. "What I mean to say was 'all good things come in time'." Now that sounded better, and hopefully it would come true very soon. A girl can be near paper for just a short amount of time.
�"You better right about this." I threatened.
�"I'm always right. Remember when I predicted polka dots were going to be the next big thing. A month later the city was seeing spots." Which really only lasted for a week before skinny jeans came back to the fashion world. "Just trust me on this. Things will be sunny side up."
"Those are my favorite kind of eggs." I quipped. "Nothing better than a runny yolk."
�"Ew, don't mention eggs to me before I crave some. They don't allow it in my diet." My best friend is on a diet that really does not consist of anything except water and inhaling some food, literally. A couple of mornings ago I was frying some bacon, or this ham, and all she did was fan the aroma into her nostrils before claiming she was full. I should be worried. I should be, but it's a fact (and her secret) that she hides Krispy Kreme donuts in her desk and stops at Starbucks for their gooey brownies. I can honestly say she is a diet criminal, as the rest of the female population is. "And there goes my attention span." She announced excitedly. Usually she would get up from her seat and gawk at all the models on the third floor. No wonder she couldn't sit still in her seat for more than fifteen minutes.
�"Model madness time." I stated.
�"Exactly. Call you when I'm off, we should go out for some drinks."
�"Wouldn't miss it."
�As you can see, I may have forgotten my boss's name, my future boyfriend's name and where I actually work but I will never forget a night with martinis and body shots (with the help of my fake ID of course, hehe).