Cupcake Party Sequel

1021 ET

There is a going-away party at Badvertiser today. I expect “party,” of course, to be a gross overstatement for what will happen. I’m on my way to the cupcake shop right now.

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1114 ET

Vadim, the guy for whom we’re throwing the going-away “party,” takes the first cupcake. He takes what I assume is for him an obligatory single bite of the cupcake before placing it on the counter, the treat otherwise untouched. I get to clean it up, too.

Sayonara, asshole.

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1203 ET
An hour has elapsed since I unleashed the cupcakes. In an office of 30 people, only six cupcakes have been consumed thus far.

That’s a rate of .2 cupcakes per hour per person. This inhuman cupcake rate does not endear the Badvertiser office to me. This was Badvertiser’s chance to redeem itself, but I guess some things just never change.

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1241 ET
Blandon, the guy who sits in the adjacent cubicle, walks up to the counter on which I’ve displayed the cupcakes. “Where are these from? They look amazing,” he comments, in his signature bland, monotonous tone of admiration.

Before I can answer, he walks into the kitchen. He returns with a sandwich. Cold-cut turkey on white bread. He eats it ravenously, nevermind the delicious, tempting cupcakes only four feet away from him.

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1346 ET
I am eyeing Hellissa from the corner of my eye. She is approaching the cupcakes. I see her reach for something on the counter. I look away for a moment, with a self-satisfied grin; no one can resist these cupcakes!

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1347 ET
Shit! I’m mistaken. Utterly mistaken. I see her walking away with pens in her hand. Pens from the pen cup that’s on the counter, behind the cupcakes.

She’s still Hellissa; no new alias for her until she eats a fucking cupcake.

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1525 ET
Hellissa is back. She is actually acknowledging my presence. “Hey McQ, can I…”

“Yes, please, have as many as you want,” I blurt out. Finally, Hellissa! You have crossed over from the “I hate you” column of my life into the “I don’t really like you” column. This is unprecedented.

But then she finishes her sentence.

“…take these for some clients? I have a meeting in a little bit, and I thought I’d bring them some cupcakes to show them I care.”

Total psyche. Stop crushing what little hope I have for you, Hellissa, for it is running out.

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At least the cupcakes are gone now. Last time, I ate the leftovers alone in the conference room with tears streaming down my face.

My Fake-Job CV

I've about half an hour left of fake-work at Badvertiser, but I won't be done for the day. I'll be going to job #4 tonight, another one of my many fake-jobs.

I think this is a good opportunity for me to recap my fake-job titles, followed by a brief summary of my qualifications.

1. Badvertiser. This blog is a thorough account as to why I should be getting fired immediately. Totally Unqualified: 'nuff said.
2. Alpana Bawa. Alpana is a clothing designer who I used to serve at Cafe Gypsy. I tend to her shop on Saturdays. I take this job the most seriously, but must admit that after 6pm on Saturday, I have a tendency to invite girlfriends over with promises of a stoop bacchanalia--never to the detriment to the shop, though. Fairly Unqualified: I don't know how to take people's measurements, nor use a credit card machine, nor anything about fabrics.
3. English Tutoring. My student, Jason, takes me out to dinner, buys me drinks, buys me tickets to shows, and pays me $20 an hour. Totally Unqualified: I've never worked for an escort service, nor do I have any pedagogical background.
4. Muse. I sit around while an old Irish dude takes topless pictures of me. Other duties include moving extremely heavy tables while topless, having a hot cup of Irish breakfast tea and biscuits while topless, etc. Somewhat Unqualified: I prefer not to lift objects weighing over 50 lbs.

Well... off to work!