Outta here

I've interviewed for a job with a bigger, more stable company, and I hope to have a satisfactory offer in about three days. So of course I plan to give my formal notice in about three and a half days.

Normally, this realization would mark a turning point in my attitude; I would begin to find sentimental reasons to regret, in some small way, calling it quits.

However, this morning, before I had a chance to get all smooshy about it, my boss thundered into my office, slammed a five-pound ream of printed paper on my desk with a multitude of indecipherable red squiggly pen marks throughout, and said:

"This pretty much highlights the stuff we have in stock that I want to get pictures of for the website, okay?"

"O...kay," I said, staring at it with my wtf face on, "that's a good start."

He turned to leave, so I piped up quickly. "How do you... what do you mean when you say 'get' pictures? Are... do you want to pho--"

"I mean I intend for you to go through and find suitable pictures."

"Online, or... do you mean in the catalogues?" I hate the catalogues.

"That'd be a good start, I think," he answered in his snarky, condescending, singsong way.

"I can do that," I lied, and he left, satisfied.

I'm going to do it. I'm just going to do it with a song in my heart, and the song goes like this:

FUCK YOU GUYS I'M OUTTA HERE
dee dee dee da
FUCK THIS JOB AAAHAHAHAHAHA
a-do-dee dee dee da
YOU'RE SO SCREWED AND YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW
dee dee dee da
AAAHAHAHAdo do do do HA

Sing that to whatever melody you like. It's sort of a tuneless, maniacal mantra for me, and that is all I need.

Ooh, although if I gave it a tune, I could hum it when the boss's wife walks by...