Barfiesta

Of all of the colors in the crayon box, yellow is the barfiest. No one wants the yellow crayon, and by no one, I mean me.

Yellow is barfy.

The only color that comes close to the hideousness of yellow as far as I am concerned, is the color formerly known as flesh. Flesh is pretty barfy too, even if you change its name to the more politically correct color known as peach.

Still barfy.

If you combine yellow and flesh, what do you get?   A veritable barfiesta! 

Or, my office.

The only bright spot in this gastrointestinal cavalcade of nausea inducing debauchery is my fancy turquoise desk.  It’s a shame the new spray painted finish has been marred by my tears.

What was I supposed to do? 

I certainly could not keep the pee chairs at the New Digs. They were a daily reminder of my failed attempt to be sunny and happy and shit.  They had to go.   So of course, I sold them to Mr. Fussy Pants to put at the new corporate headquarters of Fussy and Bitchy Inc.  I was almost finished patting myself on the back for my shrewd negotiating skills, when Fussy informed me that the pee chairs would make a lovely addition to my little corner of hell commonly referred to as my office.

Say Whaaa-T?

 He wasn’t kidding, and I didn’t want to give him his 60 bucks back, so there they are in all of their pee stained glory. 

I am a lot of things, but  I am not a quitter, I embraced the barfy office.  I made lemonade out of pee.  I covered all evidence of my attempt to tunnel out of my personal Alcatraz with a chopstick, by covering the damaged plaster with a billboard-sized poster of the most evil canine in the world who coincidentally pees on all of my belongings. This my friends, is subliminal decorating at its finest.  My own Strawberry Fields “John is dead” moment.  I kick ass at this, I know.

                                                                                                                                   

I just hope the new girl thinks so when she sees her new office Monday morning.

Out-

T