Psychotic Secretary

4:30 in the pee-em and I'm craving a Starbucks iced passion-tea lemonade. If you've never tried this concoction, don't - you will ache for it every day and will proceed to re-mortgage your abode and sell your children into slavery to get it. It's like crack in a plastic tumbler. Tasty, fruity, unsweetened, red-colored crack that you desire with all your being.

I want mine in a bucket (venti is that what their huge size is called and why is the word "LARGE" so hard for them?) and I want to suck it down in one huge, satisfying movement till it drips down my chin attractively and I can relax and put down the axe.

I'm always thirsty this time of day. My body knows subconsciously that the cafeteria closes at 3 o'clock and so it waits, cunningly, until that hour passes then sends me into a state where I would ransom off someone's elderly granny to procure something icy cold and quenching. Luckily for lots of reasons, there are no elderly ladies in the vicinity although Starbucks is on the next block so if I get really desperate I can sneak out and go threaten someone in there to make me one.

Today my boss is flighty. He can't sit still. It's like someone put itching powder inside his tightie-whities. Obviously I wish I had thought of this, although it would involve a stronger stomach than I possess not to mention some industrial strength rubber gloves and tongs before I'd ever agree to touch anything that had come in contact with his undercarriage.