And the drama never ends.

So after Kelsey and Glen had their tryst that I meantioned my last entry, Kelsey decided she was over him. Now, if this had to do with the fact the chase was over, the size of Glen’s hoo-hah, or the fact that she started getting pushed around by an ex-con, I will never know. (She liked getting pushed around by the ex-con, before you go all “omg why didn’t you call the police?!” The day she came in late because he’d pulled out part of her weave, we all got free lunch.)

However, Glen was heartbroken, and kept trying to work her over. It wasn’t happening, and she kept flaunting Mr. Ex-Con in his face. Finally, Glen started getting sick of her teasing (though, to be fair, she wasn’t teasing him anymore) and started cracking down on her lack of managerial skills.

Or at least, I wish that was what happened. Really, he just got pissed because she’s never in on time. Mind you, he’s rarely in anyway, so why does he even care? Again, I don’t understand the dynamics of this office, and it just keeps getting weirder and weirder.

So Glen is over Kelsey, and Kelsey has decided that dating someone that was in jail for attempted murder or something horrendous like that was a bad idea (hmmm, ya think?) and so, I thought that the office would calm down. Maybe. Someday.

Unfortunately, a few days ago (I’ve had to recover from the shock, hence why I didn’t update it right away), we noticed that one of the girls from another department, Caitlyn, had been spending a lot of time in Glen’s office. I mean, a lot of time. She was bringing him lunch and he’d always have her close the door. Wtf, right? My question is are the girls and I the only ones who notice all these crazy indiscretions?

But Caitlyn & Glen’s mid-afternoon rendezvous took a not entirely unexpected turn. Jessica comes running over to me and tells me I have to talk to Beverly. She can’t even speak she’s in such a state, and so I go to talk to Beverly at her desk. As I do, I pass Caitlyn, who has just left Glen’s office.

Me: “What’s up? Jessica said I need to-”
Beverly: “I’m so scarred. I’m so scarred.”
Me: “Whoa, what happened?”
Beverly: *shudders* “Moaning. Moaning!”

She then gestures toward Glen’s office and it takes me a minute before I get it. (I hadn’t had coffee yet – forgive me for not connecting the dots immediately).

I then proceed to dry heave in the trashcan.

There’s nothing worse than knowing your supervisor is a raving womanizer. And that he conducts his affairs in the office. REALLY, people?! How do people get away with this shit?

I also found out that he’s a “boob” man, which has caused me to dress like an Amish woman in our office. Because as much as I would love a promotion or a recommendation to move up within the company, I am not about to do anything like that. I am not a slut, thank you very much. (Or at least I’m not a slut any longer. There was a dark couple of years during college that I don’t like to talk about, but it consisted of a lot of guys that I don’t remember).

Speaking of my ex-sluthood though, I have to say that despite the fact that I don’t even know where my number lies, no one ever guessed I was a slut. People still don’t believe me when I mention the dark days, and not much has changed about my style, appearance, or demeanor since then. I’m a little bit less strung out than I was back than (oh, Cymbalta, how I love you), but that’s really the only difference.

Because I knew the importance of a little mystery. If you dress alluring rather than skanky, you’ll garner more attention. At least from the men who actually value not having growths on their hoo-hah, and giving them to you.

But, alas, I apparently am one of the few who still believe that modesty is a virtue. It’s summertime here in Chicago, and the slutty clothes have been brought out from the closet. I can’t walk 5 feet outside my office without encountering at least 4 women in less cloth than my purse is constructed out of. Combined.

Seriously? Clothing is your friend. Have some self respect. I do not need to see your nipples through your shirt, there is such a thing as too much cleavage, skintight barely ever equals sexy, and if I can see the pockets out the bottom of your jean shorts – YOUR SHORTS ARE TOO SHORT.

Oh, also. I am a fan of high heels. I wear them on a daily basis, but I also wear correctly sized clothing. I also know how to walk in them. If you cannot walk in 4inch heels, do not try it. And if you’re going to try it anyway, do not wear a miniskirt so short that I’m left to wonder if you’re wearing anything under your shirt at all.

Why? Because when you trip because you can’t walk in your stupid shoes, then I get the awesome view of your thong. Please note the sarcasm. I do not want to see your buttfloss.

Yes, I own thongs. Why? I’m not really sure. I barely wear them, and when I do it’s because I’ve ignored my laundry for a month and they’re all I have left. I understand the purpose…. or at least the theory behind them. Underwear lines are not sexy. However, thong lines? Not sexy. (And, by the way girls, thong lines are nearly ALWAYS seen, no matter how much you assure me they’re not). And when you lean over, if I can see your thong, do not be surprised if I lean over and spill my nonfat latte down your crack just to teach you a lesson.

And before some cranky nay-sayers say that I’m jealous, back off. Am I a model-worthy size 0? No. But I don’t wear anything larger than a 10, and that was during my heavy days. I’ve since lost 15 pounds (oh, again Cymbalta, how I love you), and so no, I’m not jealous. My self-esteem is directly proportional to how I look. I just happen to have a modicum of self-respect. It’s a concept, I know, but look it up. Try it out. You might actually like it.

I’m glad my therapist doesn’t mind my rantings about somewhat meaningless stuff. Because when you’re therapist starts to judge you, that’s when you realize that you really might just be too crazy for the rest of society.