One year

I have to go into work for the next three days and be micromanaged by the hateful cow that I work for. I do not know how I will get through this week without alcohol.

I love being called and told what I will be doing the next day, what the plans for my life are. Then she asks me to pick up things for the office. Always a hand in my fucking pocket. Like my bank account belongs to her. Always plucking out of it.

Bottom line, get to June. Get to July. One more year, then I can quit, all bills paid off. The house, the car…and I will take a lovely trip to Spain and dream of next steps.

Posted in Workrant.

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