Sometimes a girl just wants to be a mother fucking diva.
A right, I can wholeheartedly admit, I do not deserve.
As ashamed as I am, there are days when admittedly I wish I was a corporate superboss.
I would wake up in the morning with my latte – made from the tears of new mothers – handed to me.
I would wear custom suits designed by dead artists – made my materials that would only make Lady Gaga proud.
And I would never drive to work.
My preferred mode of transport would obviously be teleportation, but seeing as the technology is only available to the top 1%, I would settle for helicopter rides.
Oprah would be on my speed dial, and she would call me incessantly – solely to bitch to me about her life long bff Gail.
I would listen impatiently, rolling my eyes, offering non-commital crap advice – and not only would she soak it all up – she would also feature my words of wisdom in her magazine. i would be labeled something cool and stoic like “Advice Guru.”
And eventually – it would be me on HER cover.
As superboss Diva, I would make it my personal mission to be the last person to arrive at work and the first to leave.
I would scream at employees unprofessionally demanding they act more “professional.”
And I would sexually harass anyone and everyone in my office.
I would be an excellent listener – and all my minions – I mean employees, would always feel like they could talk to me about their most mundane life events. One girl would excitedly tell me about her honeymoon in Thailand.
And I would look at her evenly and insist that she could no longer work here until she got tested for STDs.
She would burst into tears, and one of my many assistants would rush to collect her tears for my next latte.
Pitch sessions would be the best, I would sport a permanent grimace, shaking my head with every word uttered out their mouths. Scowling, I would say encouraging team building statements like, “Are you serious?” and “Ugh, you should have been a stain on your parents’ sheets.”
Only to then later use their ideas and pen them as my own.
One loud mouth worker would obviously catch on, I would then be saddened to let them go for sexual harassment.
No one would enter my office. They would stare in horror through my bullet and sound proof glass, as I would pound and scream at my computer.
They would pity who ever would be at the brunt of my rage.
Little would they know, office hours for me, would solely be reserved for online shopping and heated games of League of Legend.
Direct eye and hand contact would be forbidden. And more importantly – no shared elevator rides.
I would go home every night with a sense of fulfillment and empowerment. Oprah would call to check in, and I simply would not answer.
And life would be beautiful, great even,
Until I died.
And as I would stare up from deep in the pits of hell, I would watch my employees celebrate. They would have the party of their lives – and they would all make fun of me. They would chant, dance and sing in pure jubilation.
New mothers would stop crying, and Thailand would be STD free again – ha.
And the world would be a better place. The next boss would promise to never be “like me.” Just like that – my reign of tyranny would be over, and smiles would be allowed again.
And I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it- and that would drive me eternally insane. I would sob into my human hair jacket while one satan’s many minions would try to collect my tears for his latte.
Sweet Dreams World.