You’ve been whining for two weeks about your horrible haircut… hell, you even wrote a painfully long blog about it… you’re bloated and you feel as big as a bluefuckingwhale, you’ve been breaking out. You received word that ID Picture taking day is tomorrow and is adviced to wear your cutest smart-casual attire you dare to come up with. Not a good idea because you foolishly gave all your nice smart-casual clothes away to charity as well as all of your girly flats.
You are stuck with option one, ignore the damned note and go the damned photo gig wearing your usual black tee and chucks. Option two, find the most decent top buried somewhere in your still-bloated closet (but who has time for that, right?) and feign innocence, telling people you never got that memo and three, let your fashion-designerslashsister talk you into wearing an impossibly ruffly-prissy top that’s two sizes too big for you. You try to argue but she gave her what-if-you-get-sacked-for-being-stubborn speeches so early in the fucking morning. You brain wasn’t half-alive yet to ponder other ways to reel yourself away from a sticky situation so you said “okay”
You arrived in the office knowing you’re gonna be teased for wearing something that resembles a Barong and with your lezbot haircut it’s only a matter of time before you start to grow an Adam’s apple and the look is complete. You slap on a smile and pretend that everything is juuust peachy. Oh it get’s better.
The it happened. You get word that instead of the usual ID picture where your ugly mug is the only thing visible from the pic, your whole midsection (waist-up, people) gets to join the party. Your mind reels thinking, with a two-sizes too big top, you look like a fucking balloon. A fucking white balloon. A fucking billowing white balloon. A fucking billowing white balloon who already feels bloated.
That dreaded day a photograph of you is forcibly taken just when you look totally shitty. A photo you are going to sport around for the rest of your days in the company your working for. Sounds like a girl’s nightmare, no? Well… to me it sounds like my typical Friday in the office.
They could’ve done it a month ago when I still have an ok-looking hair… or two weeks ago when I’m still not as fat as I feel now or yesterday when I’m wearing an okay-looking shirt but nooo it has to be TODAY. Today. A girl just can’t get a fucking break in this stupid world. Uggghhh.
(oh, by the way, the pic above has nothing to do with this bitter, bitter post.