My "What the fuck happened last night?!" stories are progressively getting more intense. I'm not doing this on purpose, I swear. I attract insanity, I suppose. Last night was spent with Keely, Keith, and way too much alcohol.
Fast forward.
It's 7 in the morning. I need to get up for work. My downstairs bathroom is overflowing with bubbles, there are empty cans and bottles everywhere, my wet underwear and bra are on the kitchen counter, the pool table is forever tainted, my hair is one gigantic knot, and me and Keely are naked on my bed.
I'm still completely wasted and I need to puke. So I do. And then I realize that I need to be at work at 8:30.
After multiple unsuccessful attempts at putting pants on (I was still too drunk to hold myself up), I collapsed next to Keely, called my supervisor, and drunkenly left a message about how I ate something bad yesterday and I'll be in late.
Fast forward.
I pull my ass into work four hours late, hungover. I'm dragging. Everyone is looking at me like I'm an alien. And then my boss says "Nicole, we need to speak to you in the office."
Fuck.
A million things start racing through my head. The first one, which I thought was the most likely, was that they were going to drug test me. I mean, I walk into the office on a regular basis with a druggie look. You know, bright red eyes, twitching. And not because I take drugs, but rather, because I often drink on weeknights or head to bed at 3 or 4 in the morning.
So I sit down. It's quiet. The office manager and my supervisor are staring me down. They start talking about food. Seriously?! Like, get to the fucking point. And then he says it.
I got promoted.
What the fuck?! He even broke into the Jefferson's theme song, Movin' On Up. Only me, I swear. This doesn't happen to normal humans.
No comments:
Post a Comment