My co-worker B gave her two weeks’ notice today. I am sad to see her leave. This sadness is second, emotionally, to the jealousy blackouts I have suffered as a result – she’s moving to Spain. Naturally, I see this as an opportunity to really mess with her in ways that I couldn’t when I still had to pretend to be a nice person so she would help me with projects, accompany me on my kleptomania-infused jaunts to the pharmacy, and sympathy binge on Wendy’s with me.
Just before going to meet with our boss, B expressed some concern that perhaps given that she has access to financial information and our web site she would be escorted out of the company immediately after handing in her resignation. Because I’m an asshole, I decided to play on this insecurity. But I waited a few hours to put my plan in motion because, frankly, I’m having a fat day and my skirt isn’t exactly…how do you say…zipped up.
So while B stepped away from her desk (probably to advise others of her impending departure and clean up their tears with her pretty blonde hair), I promptly enlisted an unwilling but only quietly protesting co-worker to help me take everything off of B’s desk.
We stashed her crap in my office and I eagerly awaited her return/heart attack.
Today was a good day.
Someone should write a book on office shenanigans. It will be the worst book I’ll ever read cover to cover. On the toilet.