It is Xmas, the season of unwanted parties

I’m sorry, I’ve got to say this somewhere.

Dear Organisation that Employs Me

I do not want to go to your stupid party. Your invitation makes me feel angry and distressed. I’ve been severely abused by this company for three very long months. My health is in shreds, what’s left of my commercial business is in tatters. I am broke. I am powerfully disinclined to even consider spending one more penny on clothes or taxis across London. Why would I do that? Because it’s Christmas? Is that how Christmas works now? I let you keep punching me in the face, and then I jig around at a party at your command, like the performing monkey I am, and that’s how we celebrate the birth of Jebus.

How about fuck off. I am really insulted that you would abuse me that badly and then magnanimously offer me a couple of drinks and a disco, what kind of a fool do you take me for. You are lucky I am not taking you to court. That is my Christmas gift to you. I am not serving you with a lawsuit.

I drank a £40 bottle of wine on Saturday, by myself, out of sheer relief that I was interacting with someone unconnected with work. So let’s just say that that was my Xmas party, right there, okay? Done and done. I don’t have time for this shit. Don’t talk to me again until January unless it’s about money.

No love,

Gloria.

 

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