It's been nearly two weeks since I was let go at my job in order that "I might find happiness" elsewhere. The sense of betrayal continues to overwhelm me. As the Sandman seeks to shut my little eyes and fill my dreams with visions of the sugarplum tree, the Death Squad at my former workplace, Bollocks & Psychos, Ltd., walks with cloppity shoes inside my head.
In hindsight, I realize all the signs were there: once friendly and trusted co-workers avoiding me like the plague, Mr. Milquetoast (the only decent guy) giving me squinty side-long glances as he hurried past, none of the office sows piling into the doughnuts I'd brought in that morning, and the complete serene calm of Pisser, the office manager. She was getting her way and life was good for her.
Yes, I'd been on the Death Squad of B&P, Ltd. myself in the year I'd been there. I'm not proud to either admit it or know what I did to relatively innocent co-workers. The typical day for the Soon-To-Be-Fucked-Up-The-Ass started out much like any other with all of the rest of us scathing bitches having full and complete knowledge of her fate. Soft strains of the Jaws theme song would commence around 4:30 p.m. and we, the horrid and conniving puds, would wait in gleeful anticipation of the other cloppity shoe dropping on ol' STBFUTA. Ha ha HAH!
The saying "What goes around, comes around" has been permanently affixed on my psyche since I left that day. I reaped what I'd sown. If time could be turned backward, I would have refused to participate in the awfulness no matter what the personal cost to me.
I knew my day of reckoning was inevitable. You swim with sharks, eventually you will get eaten. Nom nom nom...