Interduckshin

A stack of envelopes with an elastic band containing and separating each alphabetized group of 45 has been carefully organized to my right. That stack represents six long hours of addressing, printing (each letter individually, so that the clients can feel that we're really talking to just them when they see their first name instead of "valued client,") signing, licking (because it would be madness to just use a sponge or something; perhaps even logical,) sealing, and stamping. The company logo is printed on the top left corner of each envelope with the wrong website. Don't worry, I set up a re-direct until we use all the out of date stationary supplies.

Oh, yes. I am an "Office Manager." The quotes are for your pleasure; parse as sarcasm and self-mockery. I am an assistant. A secretary. A receptionist. A mailroom. A webmonkey. An advertising consultant. A graphic designer. A cleaning lady. A chef. A productions co-ordinator. A financial planner. A bitch.

I am not particularly sure why I have begun this blog. This is not my first, will not be my last. But I'm sick of my friends knowing where to find me, asking me what I meant, interpreting incorrectly. I'm bored of self-censorship to protect myself; here it will only be found to protect others.

I guess I'm just like thousands of others who key away at their vanity-driven websites. I like to think that at least I've got a great set of tits and a strange job, and that should at least narrow down the categorization to hundreds.

-Trixie Pages, out for now.