Me had dream. Me had weird dream.
A lil’ background before I delve in: I used to work at a foreclosure/real estate/insane company that for the purpose of this entry, I shall call Monkey Funds. Monkey Funds was a terrible company with literal monkeys running the place, at least at the Boise branch. My old boss was one of those monkeys, a VP monkey in fact, head monkey. So I was basically this monkey’s personal assistant or his ‘right hand banana’. This monkey and I got too close, friendship wise, and to not bore you with the details, but he used his charming monkey wiles to sexually harass me, take advantage of my position and basically use my attraction to his sexy yet short monkey self to his benefit. Monkey Douche. I worked with other sales monkeys who I actually enjoyed but Monkey Douche made my life a disturbing 19th century French prose poem.
I quit Monkey Funds a month ago. I literally said ‘I quit’ and walked out. One of the most scary yet ultimately best moments of my life. I mentally took a picture of my boss’ bewildered face as I told him and framed it on the polished marble fireplace mantle in my mind.
To my dismay, last night Monkey Douche (MD) decided to crawl into my thoughts like a silverfish. In the dream, Sales Monkey A (SM A) asked me to come back to MF to do some part time work. For whatever stupid reason, I agreed. But Monkey Douche had other plans. Instead he picked up two random girls he met in an Arby’s parking lot to do my job (Arby’s bought ad space in my dream, apparently. Beef and Cheddars are my pillows). MD refused to look at me or speak to me, much as it is in real life. Sales Monkey A said MD called me a ‘nasty bitch’ to which I laughed and pretty much agreed. (This most likely also happened in real life.) However, SM A was not supposed to tell me this and when MD found out, he was furious. Somewhere along the line, Monkey Douche’s habitat was set ablaze and he blamed me. That’s when the fun began. Think of a Discovery Channel special about rabid monkeys trying to beat the hell out of each other for possession of a banana. My real life arguments with MD were legendary, frequent and oddly, therapeutic. In the dream, however, MD eventually wanted to hire me back but me being the ever ballsy and ‘nasty bitch’ I am, said no.
Sometimes I miss Monkey Funds but most of the time I don’t. I don’t miss wearing high heels everyday in some vain attempt to feel sexy around all the sales monkeys. I also don’t miss drunken fights and naked pictures being flashed in front of my face.
Sometimes I fantasize about slinking over to Monkey Douche in my high heels and low cut top…and stealing his car. I miss that Ford Escape.