It just sounds funky…UPPER Management.
As if they’re superior.
As if they’re on some kind of throne.
As if we are peons, little wobbly weebles who merely offer servitude for their paperwork, their coffee cravings, their catered boring meetings where they sit around discussing the creation of even more paperwork.
And there I sit with ink pen in hand, pretending as if I care about mergers and acquisitions, number crunching and adjudications. It’s as if they’re speaking Yiddish. And I could care less. But I scribble fast, taking notes on Bob and Tom and Peter’s musings and ramblings.
“Are you getting all of this down, Jennifer?”
I hate taking notes on what people are saying.
As if what they’re pontificating about is vital, crucial to the survival of mankind. As if it’s a matter of life and death.
They really annoy me. I mean, to the utmost fibroids of my innermost self.
And the thing that really gets me is they make, like, five times what I make.
Down with upper management. They suck-tola.