Love.
I’m not a very demonstrative person.
Physically.
Some months ago.
I am trying to figure out how to effectively market a client.
Said client has all the answers to chronic fatigue syndome, ME, depression, insomnia and anxiety attacks. There is a brand new method she is bringing to the market. Involving magnets or crystals or something. Whatever. It could be an enormous solution to these woes.
I’m puzzling over this. Some sort of online campaign methinks. The 'internet people' love this shit.
Grotbags glances at my screen.
Two years ago Grotbags nursed her mother through terminal stomach cancer. At home. Whilst maintaining her job and raising her two biological children and one child from her husband’s previous marriage. She changed her mother’s bandages daily and personally swabbed her intestines when it finally ate through the walls of her stomach. She died at home in Grotbags’ front room.
We argue daily. She's right about everything and so am I. Neither of us ever win but have massively entertaining blazing rows.
Grotbags: What’s this then?
I don’t have much to say on the subject. It sort of speaks for itself.
Grotbags: [Reading my client’s amazing talents] Fuck ME? She can actually cure things that DON’T EVEN EXIST?? She must be fucking amazing! What would happen if she turned her hand to REAL illnesses? Anyway, you out tonight?
I don’t hug her, although I have in the past. Drunk and that.
I shoot her a sidelong glance and a grin. That’s all.
She winks at me.
That’s all.
I’d always thought that was quite enough.
We both know.
Physically.
Some months ago.
I am trying to figure out how to effectively market a client.
Said client has all the answers to chronic fatigue syndome, ME, depression, insomnia and anxiety attacks. There is a brand new method she is bringing to the market. Involving magnets or crystals or something. Whatever. It could be an enormous solution to these woes.
I’m puzzling over this. Some sort of online campaign methinks. The 'internet people' love this shit.
Grotbags glances at my screen.
Two years ago Grotbags nursed her mother through terminal stomach cancer. At home. Whilst maintaining her job and raising her two biological children and one child from her husband’s previous marriage. She changed her mother’s bandages daily and personally swabbed her intestines when it finally ate through the walls of her stomach. She died at home in Grotbags’ front room.
We argue daily. She's right about everything and so am I. Neither of us ever win but have massively entertaining blazing rows.
Grotbags: What’s this then?
I don’t have much to say on the subject. It sort of speaks for itself.
Grotbags: [Reading my client’s amazing talents] Fuck ME? She can actually cure things that DON’T EVEN EXIST?? She must be fucking amazing! What would happen if she turned her hand to REAL illnesses? Anyway, you out tonight?
I don’t hug her, although I have in the past. Drunk and that.
I shoot her a sidelong glance and a grin. That’s all.
She winks at me.
That’s all.
I’d always thought that was quite enough.
We both know.
posted by Tired Dad at
11:16 pm
6 Comments:
We all need a Grotbags in the office!
it is not why i come here but you have this knack of knocking my feeling-sorry-for-myself head right off my shoulders.
thank you
Gorgeously measured. Grotbags' acidic bite, mixed with a soft underbelly - well worth a drunken hug. And sidelong sober approval.
B: She's unbearable but you're right.
C: No problem. Glad to be of help.
S: Thanks.
It's not enough for you both to know.
You need to explore those feelings ... preferably with crystals and some such things. :-)
My wife works in your office? How? She's meant to be at the fucking hospital checking peoples blood and shit under a microscope!
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