Rotting crap I call life

Yesterday afternoon, while trolling the hallways, my fellow transactional co-worker motioned to me. He's not creepy, so this was odd. After I sat down in 'my' chair in his office, he said, "I have some news." "Good or bad," I respond. "Good for me, unsure for you," he says. "If you are about to tell me you're leaving, I'm going to murder you," I say. "I'm leaving," he says.

"Asshole," I reply.

It was only after 15 minutes of us discussing the matter did I finally congratulate him, though I did tell him "fuck you" a few times.

"W." and I worked closely on various matters, and became good friends. He and I would sometimes not go to lunch with the rest of the lunch group to take in more adventurous fare. He and I were were often referred to the "bugg'n' and grubb'n' boys." Silly, I know, but it fit. He is the only person in the office I really connected with. Liberal, likes music, into gadgets, cool wife and kid so not moody and full of emotional baggage, and down-to-earth -- all qualities in a good co-worker.

The reason I am upset is not limited to merely the above. This frustration also stems from the fact that my boss is a boob. He's been here for nearly 30 years, and thus is lazy. When my former boss left in Oct. 2005, I assumed the work would remain the same; instead my workload increased 25%. Then, in December 2006, a fellow transactional guy retired after 34 years. W. and I assumed the workload would be divided among three. Soon we realized that it would be only divided by two. So, my workload increased, yet again.

Now this.

My boss told me, "things will be fine." Yeah right. If history has ever been an indicator...

This morning, upon entering W.'s office to "shoot-the-shit" -- like we do each morning -- I greeted him as follows: "there he is, the ruiner of my life."

Labels: fuck, me, stress, work