Mr. Boose?

Today, Mr. Boose hardly Boosed me at all.

No, wait. That’s not fair. He didn’t Boose me, not once. He was clear and efficient. He did his job well. I’d go so far as to say, had we spent the day at the beach (for real, sort of thing, not in a metaphor), I’d have sucked him off in the surf.

I love you, Mr. Boose. (I mean, no, not really, but today was a dream. More of that, please.)

You know, it’s funny. There was a period of three weeks when Mr. Boose went on holiday, and this is embarrassing, but I never knew he’d gone. His stand-in had a similar name—Goose, let’s call him—and it wasn’t till Goose announced Boose’s impending return I twigged to his absence. Work had been awfully pleasant, awfully straightforward, but I thought I’d just…trained Boose, or let him train me.

Today was a Goosey day, except it was Boose. (I’m sure. I doublechecked.)

Sometimes, I’m convinced Mr. Boose knows who I am. He comes here and reads about himself, and he…uses what he reads. He whomps up a plan, finely calibrated to fuck with me. He’s the master of fuckery, Mr. Fucking Boose.

Mr. Boose, if you’re out there, I have fairly severe optic neuritis. I have trouble reading your notes. Do you know if it’s possible to enlarge markup text in Word? And if it is, would you do so?

Much obliged….

Start a fight! (I mean, don't do that. But by all means, leave a comment.)

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s