Jesus fucking christ, I just got pulled aside to be reminded of the company dress code.
I have not moved from my stupid half-desk in the back corner of the back office at the end of the hall all god damned day. What, does this asshat have nothing better to do than to go wandering around looking in windows to see if I am too casual, not enough corporate? And then he sends someone *else* over, to mention to me that my shirt is inappropriate attire. It seems that in addition to being deathly allergic to denim (lord knows WHAT might happen if I wore jeans here one day - we would probably be fending off plagues of locusts and frogs falling from the sky shortly thereafter), once you are promoted enough times, you also develop a severe aversion to the sight of a BARE HUMAN NECK. God FUCKING forbid I wear a (very nice, very sharp, stylishly half-tucked, grey-blue from Express) shirt without a god damned button-collar today.
That was probably the last fucking thing I was expecting to happen today. Yes, please -- in addition to working in fucking deep downtown Manhattan in a soulless corporate conglomerate doing work that is, frankly, deadly dull, incredibly repetitive, and mindlessly stultifying, while listening to the fucktards sitting in my room with me blabble on about how many girls they are dating at the same time, now I have to listen to someone critique my fashion sense as well? I do not fucking need this bullshit.