Oh fuck me.
In June this year, my company had a day of fun – it involved kayaking, playing in the pool and what not. I carried my camera and took a few pictures. Every other person I photographed said:
“Make sure that you send me those photos.”
Three weeks after taking 11 MB of photos, I did not send a thing. Then one of the girls who used the above statement sent me an email asking after the promised pictures. I thought I would send them to her then, but also thought about the countless other people who had wanted them. I did not know half of these people, and the other half I could not remember. What is more, I could not be bothered to take the time to go through my address book and search for each person to send it to them.
Here is an idea – let me send the pictures to each member of the lower 2 levels (7 levels in all) of staff at my company – that should just about cover who I should have sent it to, and then some. Sending those pics to everyone would have been an idea because then the head of IT – a stern bitch not to be trifled with – would have undoubtedly caught wind of it, and blown my head off, because one is not allowed to send large non-work related emails to every Tom, Dick, and Harry, effectively slowing down the server on which we work.
About a week after I sent the email, one of the more uppity of the second level staff members emailed me a reprimand – CC’ing the same lower 2 levels I had sent the email too. I would have felt duly penitent, and suitably scolded if my reprimander had not forgotten to delete the attachments. For this reason, he only succeeded in sending around yet another 11MB email, slowing down the server yet again. What a jackarse.
Three months passed, and I forgot all about the sordid, but slightly amusing ordeal. And then, today, I get an email from the head of IT. I usually ignore her emails because they usually relate to stupid IT crap I can afford to ignore – opening it up only long enough to ensure that it was ignore-worthy, and then deleting. I certainly did not delete this one.
Now we are only allowed a limited amount of space in our email inbox at work – 150 MB, I believe. Apparently, some idiot trainee had a seriously clogged inbox, and the head of IT herself went to investigate, only to realise that the trainee had several, large non-work related emails in his inbox. Ms. Head Bitch IT was so scandalised, in fact, at the size of the emails, that she thought it best to take a screenshot of the trainee’s inbox, emails sorted by size, and email it to EVERYONE in the firm. Even better, she circled the size of three largest emails.
Not only was my CIRCLED email #2 in size, but, with my recent promotion, I was the only person on that screenshot at my level in the firm.
DEAR FUCKING GOD.
And this woman CC’d EVERYBODY – all of the managers, the directors, the partners, even the fucking HR staff. Oh fuck me. It’s the 19th of September though. I just hope that the HR staff processed payroll already, because I do not want something like this to fuck up my September bonus.
In completely unrelated news, I went out with Zodiac on Saturday night. I left the house just before 9pm, and did not arrive home until after 4 the next morning.
First, we went to the cinema to watch Crank – a really good movie by the way, to go see with a bunch of people at the Cineplex. After that, we hightailed it down to Shakers, an outdoor bar populated by high society people. I had not eaten since 3 that afternoon, and nine hours later, I was putting back screwdrivers, and then a Blue Lagoon. Zodiac met a well-traveled Rastafarian and his White, blonde haired, blue-eyed wife, and her fat, brown haired, brown-eyed nephew. I do not know how the idea of tequila came up, but it did.
And then I did my first shot of tequila – complete with salt, and lime and all. It burned more in my stomach than it did on the way down. Then I felt nothing. For three minutes. During these 3 minutes, I shot the shit with the woman and her nephew, while Zodiac spoke with the Rastafarian. Then I felt it beginning to hit me. I was standing, holding on to my chair, and I felt myself having to hold the chair tighter and tighter. I thought to myself:
“Shit. I hope Zodiac comes over here. I feel like I’m going to fall.”
And I was standing on flat ground people. Flat. Ground.
Soon the words of the two people with whom I was conversing began to meld into each other, and I was no longer able to concentrate on them.
“Oh shit,” I said.
And my eyes began to roll into the back of my head. Now I knew what drugs felt like.
The high was fucking amazing. Amazing. We left within 2 minutes of this – the Rasta wanted to go liming at Smokey’s and Bunty’s in St. James. I walked to the car, Zodiac holding me so I would not fall, completely enjoying the high.
It was only when I reached to Zodiac’s car, that I thought it best to tell him I wanted to pee.
Finding the bathroom was an adventure in my state of mind.
“Oh my god, I’m tripping. I’m trippin’, Zodiac. I’m trippin’. I’m straight trippin. I’m trippin.”
I repeated that like a mantra, in between laughing uncontrollably, and skipping (literally!) to the bathroom.
“Skip to the loo, my darling.” – some nursery rhyme
The only hiccup in the adventure was The Syrian calling me while trying to find the bathroom. Zodiac had my phones, so he saw who was calling. I answered the phone, and he heard me telling the person, at one in the morning, that I would send the person a text as soon as I get home.
Zodiac: “Who’s that? Your boyfriend.”
Me: “No. Though I wish he were.”
Tequila makes you honest.
Zodiac: “Where you met him? In Tobago?”
Red flags should have come out a-fluttering, danger sirens gone on, a-bleeping. But tequila makes you happy, no matter what.
Me: “Nooo. In Trinidad.”
Huh? I can still lie? I need more tequila.
We never brought it up again – the topic, I mean. Not the tequila.
I stuck my head through the sun-roof of Zodiac’s car as Zodiac sped down Wrightson Road, on the way to Smokey’s and Bunty’s. Don’t worry though – I did not do that because I was drunk (I was doing that on the car ride from cinema as well, when I had nary a drink in me) – I was doing that because I am loopy.
At Smokey’s, the White dude bought me yet another shot of Tequila – something about liking the way I licked the salt from my hand. It was the last (and only) drink I had before I left, 2 minutes later, so the high hit me in the car. This time it was more intense. And it felt more… dangerous. I felt like I was out of my mind, and out of control.
I sat in the front seat of the car, hyperventilating, saying:
“Oh my God. Oh my God.”
Over and over and over again. And again. And again. And again. Again. Some more times. Again.
Again.
Zodiac: “Are you okay? You want to go home?”
Me, breathlessly: “No. I want to cum.”
Zodiac told me to go ahead – I could do it in the front seat or go in the back if I needed more privacy. I just sat there, silent except for my heavy breathing. Eventually, I asked:
“Is the glass tinted?”
My eyes were closed, and I did not hear him respond.
“IS THIS GLASS TINTED, ZODIAC?”
Zodiac: “…Yes.”
I touched myself. Not enough to make myself cum, but only enough to give myself some pleasure until the feeling passed. And it did, eventually. At some point, Zodiac put his hands between my cleavage.
“Don’t touch me!”
Zodiac: “I’m not touching you. I’m just removing your souvenirs.”
He was referring to the two vials I had drunk my last shot in – the White dude told me to keep them as souvenirs. I had put them in my cleavage before I left.
I let Zodiac take them. He never touched me otherwise.
After the feeling had passed, we eventually began to drive off, on our way home. We talked, because tequila makes you honest. The only thing I did not tell him about was The Syrian. Sure, I was high off of tequila, but I knew to keep that one locked up. Fifteen minutes later, I was sobbing in the car. Not even crying. Sobbing. I am not going to speak about what brought on the tears – sorry guys, but I am maintaining my code of ethics. Zodiac would later tell me that he had to try really hard not to cry when I was.
What a night it was – first a great movie, then a brand of alcohol that makes you tri-polar. I went from happy, to horny, to melancholy in the space of 2 hours. Zodiac will never buy me tequila again.
In completely unrelated news, The Syrian and I had phone sex last night.
“Bringing you up-to-the-minute news… whenever we get around to it.” – The Daily Show, with Jon Stuart