Can't help those who won't help themselves

Me! was sick yesterday.

I suggested euthanasia.

Me! declined.

Me!'s loss. 

This just in...

As Me! suspected, it wasn't too long before I was gone-zo as well.  I wonder if Me! ever truly thought she could get rid of me so easily - if she's going, she's taking me with her! 

Just to clear the air on some vital points: Me! is not the victim she has painted herself to be.  In fact, in many ways, I'd say that I am the victim. Yes, you read that correctly.  I've sat idly by, reading all the fabrications she's posted in the past, and frankly, I've had enough.  

Ok, perhaps I'm exaggerating, and perhaps I'm not really a victim at all, and perhaps I torment Me! just a bit. But, I will say this, Me! brings a lot upon herself.  Furthermore, I will not be such a dormant member/contributor to this blog in the future; Me! won't be able to cast out her accusations unopposed any longer. Are you reading, Me!? Bring the ruckus.

Stapler remover

A. kidnapped my stapler and held it for ransom. The payoff seemed pretty reasonable -- "you must buy me 7 ice cream cones" -- but it was the principle of the thing. I don't negotiate with terrorists.

At first blush, ingenious. At second blush, I'm disappointed. This sad, transparent attempt for attention falls far short of the expected. First of all, the sadistic kidnapping of a stapler is in no way "new" (see also, "Excuse me, I think you have my stapler," "Help, my stapler has been kidnapped," and "Buy me lunch or the stapler gets it.")

Second of all, who the hell signs a ransom note with their actual name? That just puts CSI workers out of business. Maybe A. should have just waited there with my stapler in her hands so there could be no doubt at who's feet to lay blame. Oh, wait, that's right -- A. signed the note. Ok, one point for solid time management.

Finally, A. never actually removed the stapler from my office; just put it in a bottom drawer of my desk. That's not forward thinking by anyone's standard. Where were the pictures of the stapler tied up or, worst yet, being surrounded and taunted by a team of Crazy Glue, Binder Clip and Post-It Note thugs? Where were the follow-up phone calls demanding the requested booty? I never once had to look into how to tap my phone. And why didn't A. send me individual staples, one at a time, over the course of a week, as if to say, here's an ear, here's a finger, here's an eye... WHERE ARE MY GODDAMN 7 ICE CREAM CONES?

No, no A. Is it possible you're slipping? Perhaps I overestimated you. Is that really all you got?

Counter threat

A. flicked me in the back. It stung a little. While being forced to lean on the cubicle counter due the weight of unfathomable despair, I asked my assistant (in front of A.) if she were good with a shovel provided the dirt were soft. Assistant informed me she was there to do whatever I asked, which gave me hope. A. advised me I should start sleeping with one eye open. Immediately lost hope, contemplated actual ability to sleep with eye open, and determined I may need a home security system.