Page 2 of Loathing My Boss
“Morning, Potato,” I murmur to my darling pea puffer as I kick my legs out of bed, sink my feet into a pair of soft slippers, and stretch my arms above my head. My sore neck pinches, and I weep internally as my heart cries for the tomb.
To renew my will to live, I shift my attention toward my fish.
Potato. The only joy I possess amid this heinous wasteland known as life. Hiding in his tank garden, which hosts roughly fifteen different plants in the vertical ten-gallon space, Potato’s giant eyes follow me as his tiny beak mouth opens and closes. The little fishy does more floating than swimming as he drifts aimlessly about his home, and I love him quite ardently for it.
Round, spotted, perfect. Pufferfish are ideal creatures, and, among them, Potato is the best. The roundest. The spottedest. The perfectest.
Lip pouted, I shuffle myself toward the bathroom so I might prepare for the trials ahead by commencing my first morning ritual—scrubbing mint onto my teeth. Thus is the way of the human.
And, despite popular belief, Iamhuman.
Upon reaching the bathroom, I obtain my toothbrush and toothpaste while I avoid looking in the mirror just in case I begin narrating my features. ’Tis, you must know, the mark of a horrible, bad, no good writer to peer in a looking glass and narrate one’s features in first person. Since I identify as one such writer, every morning I find myself plagued with the urge.
I must resist it. For the sake of my sanity.
After all, I am already beginning every last one of my days bywaking up. Which is another staple crime instorytelling. The mundane drear of a morning routine has no place in engaging fiction.
Start inthe action, writing sites everywhere advise.
And, no, wrestling my hips into a pair of jeans is not the kind ofactionthey’re talking about.
All the same, I perform the commendable feat every morning with utter disregard for my editor.
Probably because I don’t have one.
Sucking in my ovaries, I wiggle myself into my darned pants, battling the condemning fabric up over my thighs. Fighting to close the zipper and button, I decide this is surely enough action for one day, toss a loose off-the-shoulder blouse on, and brush my hair. When I can resist the urge no longer, I steal a glimpse in my bedroom standing mirror to find my layered dark brown waves hanging limp with side-character energy.
It’s actually offensive how muchsubparI am putting out into the world.
With a full name likeCrisis Day, I belong front and center in a fantasy novel, starting my mornings off with sword fights.
Instead, here I am, in yetanothermorning wake-up routine, staring feebly at my reflection, lip curled, eyes as plain brown as my stupid non-gravity-defying hair. The hours I’ve spent scouring my useless irises forflecks of goldor something worthy of mention is truly pitiful, yet they remain brown.
And dull.
And there.
In the mirror.
True big, round orbs lacking any good repute if ever I saw them.
Were I a character in a novel, the author could go chapters without describing me and lose naught from the wise decision.
“You,” I begin, boring eyes narrowed on my boringface, “are inconsequential and devoid of talent, unworthy even to answertheViktor Bachelor’s emails.” Heh. I smile. “Good thing he doesn’t know that.”
Tossing my pathetic hair, I grab my purse and my phone to dial up my moronic boss. As famous author Viktor Bachelor’s personal assistant, it is my literal job description to make his lifeeasier.
It is, however, my single aspiration to make that easy life of historture.
A grunt answers the phone, the rough rumble of it vibrating in my ear.
“Goodmorning, sleepyhead!” I cheer, making it all the way down my driveway to my car before I realize I never swapped my slippers out for shoes.
Chipper as a wilted plant, Viktor grumbles, “What…time is it?”
Time for me to turn around and put my shoes on.Duh. “A perfectly reasonable hour, Mr. Bachelor.”
“Is the sun up yet, Crisis?”
