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the colours in your head


So the woman? In the woman's bathroom? With all the hairspray? Who sprayed me in the eyes, by accident, I hope?

She needs to go.

Her fuchsia sweaters, blue eyeshadow and mall bangs offend me. The over-processedness of her hair. Her inappropriately tight clothing, suddenly erupting swathes of pale veiny flesh. Or the flesh-coloured stockings she occasionally rocks. And the fact that she's the only coworker who I encounter more than 4 times a day, leading me to believe that I may be equivalent to her on the pecking order here. Actually, she would be superior to me, as I am a lowly temp and she is the mighty Wheeler of Files armed with her Strange Wheelie Cart, but I like to think that my Ironic Granny Cardigans can take her Ugly Granny Shoes in a fight.

And a fight there will be.

A mighty battle. A duel, if you will.

I shall grab her by her shellac-ed mane and whirl her about my head until she builds up a proper launch speed, whereupon I shall let go and she will hurtle out into space, trailing synthetic fibers behind her as she goes. I expect her hair to ignite at some point, so it shall be quite a pretty sight to watch.

Alternately, she might just fall to the ground with a thud, and i will point, laugh, and cavort wildly. I'm also having doubt about my ability to raise her. My wrists have been rather weak lately... I shall have to start working out in anticipation of this battle.


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