My Signs Mean Business Y’all


Most jobs come with both positives and negatives, and mine is no exception. In one particular aspect though, I can say it’s both a blessing and a curse. I am talking about the junk food, people.

My current supervisor (bless his heart), likes to keep us fat and happy, so to speak. There is a never-ending supply of treats; we even have a whole cubicle area dedicated to the goodies.

This is awesome when I’m having one of those days when only shoveling handfuls of chocolate into my mouth can console me. Or, stop me from saying hateful things to my wildly unprofessional, immature colleagues (Someone actually huffed at me in irritation yesterday, because I didn’t want her to pawn off mail on me that wasn’t addressed to me. The nerve of me, right?).

I know I talk a good (yoga) game, but yep, I have days too when only junk food will do.

On the downside, this is not helping my forever intentions to lose ten pounds. I think I’ve been planning to lose ten pounds for an entire decade, and while I am glad the number hasn’t gone up from there, it’s almost comical at this point that it’s been on the to-do list for this long.

Also on the downside is that these ass-hats I work with actually think it’s my job to clean up after them. For the first year or two I was forever cursing them. Why the hell can’t these idiots close box lids!? Why can’t they put their wrappers in the fucking garbage can that’s literally sitting at their feet!?


I typed up very professional, albeit seething signs with giant arrows to point out the locations of the two garbage cans in the cubicle. I reminded these morons that food would either get stale or we’d get bugs if they couldn’t be bothered to close box lids. And, of course, I ended it with a very cheery Thank you! which I am sure they all knew meant Fuck you! and called it a day.

And, you know what? Those mother-fucking signs actually worked! Not a hundred percent, because assholes will be assholes, but it’s been about a year, and the cleanliness of the whole space has been substantially improved. At least I no longer cringe when I walk in there, and I don’t think I’ve had to scrub mystery goop off of the desktop even once. That’s a win, people, if I’ve ever had one.

I’ve even got a back-up plan, should the situation deteriorate again. I’d read somewhere that people behave better when they feel like they’re being watched. Even fake eyeballs will do. So, mother-fuckers, here’s your one and only warning. Cross me again, and I am going to line the walls of that cubicle with the creepiest dolls I can pick up at the dollar store. It will be like every horror movie you’ve ever seen. Just try me!

In hindsight, I’m not sure writing a blog post about candy is doing anything, but fueling my desire to cheat on my diet.

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