I have 11 minutes until I can escape.

I was caught salivating and pawing at the glass windows in the hallway and dragged once again back to my desk by that pesky critter named "Responsibility".

There is a cubicle in this office that is littered with Sponge Bob paraphenalia. Those creepy lidless eyes and oddly pronounced butt keep following me whenever I slink past it. Even more terrifying is the woman (not girl, WOMAN) that works in that cube proclaiming loudly to us all that she will marry Sponge Bob for his sexy buttocks and then proceeds to kiss the little McDonald figurines. A small voice in the back of my mind is crying right now and hiding in a darkened corner with a blankey.

The only annoying creature on my desk is the little dancing hamster purchased by my mother for me. If you press it's hand it sings "Kung Fu Fighting" and then proceeds to have some type of electrical seizure, though I have been assured he is merely "dancing" and swinging a plastic stick in what is supposed to be a cute manner. I despise this hamster and keep trying to devise ways for him to be on the receiving end of a heavy smashing 'accident'. No matter my devious plots, he remains intact and in working order on my desk. Curse it, Mother! The things I do for you out of love.

Finally! This day is almost over. *jumps, skips, trips*

I finally received my new key card for getting into this blasted building in the mornings. I went and requested it again from the busty receptionist and all she did was giggle. I don't understand this "giggling" phenomenon that some women do. I don't giggle. I either snicker (and sound like someone shoved a grape up my nose) or laugh horribly, horribly loud in the manner of a dying hyena. Small children and dogs collapse in agony at the sound of my laughter and only small, shriveled up old ladies deafened by decades of listening to their husbands whine are immune.

I still have not managed to procure coffee. My survival instincts have kicked in and I fear that if I drink any more of that sludge my intestines will do the macarana, tango right out of my ears, and ride horseback into the sunset. I have subjected myself to fountain water instead and attempt to blank from my mind's eye the images of sick coworkers undoubtably sneezing, sniffling or licking the fountain in sadistic plague spreading glee.

In the past month I have walked in on some of the strangest occurances in this bathroom. 1.) Coworker was washing her feet in the public bathroom sink. All I could manage to do was look at her in quite an uncivilized (i.e. mouth agape and nose curled in fungus scented horror) manner. 2.) Another coworker was curling her hair ... on the same sink. Her hair was all akimbo and knotted up in different ties as she worked on a specific spot. I had to hold in the urge to laugh uproarously for fear of getting stabbed with the piping hot curling iron and falling on the highly sticky and disturbingly unsanitary floor. If I fell on it, I'm sure it would have the properties of super glue and I would never manage to pry myself off. Or, even worse, sulfuric acid and I would dissolve into a puddle of goo. 3.) Yet another coworker carrying on a conversation of love and endearingly sweet (i.e. gag me now and get a room, chicky) nothings to her significant other while locked in the stall. Her conversational words were not the ONLY disturbing noises echoing from that stall either. "I love you too, sweetums -BRAAAAAPPPPP!" Nothing says "I love you" like - well, you get the idea.

So, it's Wednesday. *runs screaming for exit door before caught by security guards and dragged back to cubicle* Damn you, Khan!

They call Wednesday "hump day". >_> Did Hugh Hefner make up this name?! Or do I just need more coffee to enter into the world of "mature adults"?

Yet again, I was locked outside of the building and had to wait for someone to open the door for me. This time I was smart and stayed out of that cheese box from hell and sucked in fresh air - only mildly polluted with diesel, TCDDs and the disgusting scent of cigarette butts sitting in a pool of water (once called an ashtray) for over a week.

I already asked our receptionist to make me a new pass card on Monday. Curse you, big breasted blonde lady - so says the small chested burnette over here in the corner. If my list continues growing at this rate of people I'm at a personal war with, I'm going to end up taking on the entire office over something as ludicrous as my stapler. Gah! *runs from copyright infringement suits*

I'm terrified to try the coffee in the breakroom this morning. I left some from yesterday in my ceramic mug and it's leaking now. O_o However, the only other thing to drink in this accursed monkey farm is either Sprite or water and neither have caffeine. My stomach is revolting against the rest of my body in protest, my veins shriveling away to dust and I'm positive I'll end up rocking back and forth in the fetal position if I don't find a new mug to get some coffee within the hour.

".....Braiiiiinnnnnssssss...."

This coffee from the breakroom tastes awfully strange. I think it's trying to eat away at the lining of my esophagus. Once again, I believe I have stumbled upon proof that my coworkers are attempting to kill one another via poison. Luckily, as I have survived my own heinous cooking for many years I believe I am currently immune to all manmade and naturally occuring toxins.

...And if I don't drink this coffee I'm going to fall asleep at my desk and get fired.

Okay, okay, I also don't want to get off my butt and attempt to create a semi-normal tasting pot of coffee. This is partially laziness and partially my sense of self preservation kicking in. If the scavengers in this office learned I am capable of creating coffee that does not put others immediately into intensive care, I am positive that half of them would force me to make said coffee daily and the other half would take baseball bats to my legs in the parking lot for ruining their nefarious scheme of slow, bitter and strangely acrid tasting concoctions that are no doubt killing the various levels of management in painfully contrived ways.

Earlier today my security card failed to open the door to admit me to the office. In order to reach that locked door I must first enter one unlocked door and am then stuck into this tiny little glass box that is always horribly overheated and smells of burnt cheese. When the door failed to open I was immediately filled with glee at the prospect of skipping work and stating I could not enter and then reality sank in as 1.) I realized that I had an intercom button beside me and 2.) the scent of burnt cheese and the accompanying odor of vinyl crept into my nostrils and tried to tie my internal organs into intricate celtic knotwork designs - though I'm sure they would have been pretty, I felt a stronger desire to live and pounded on the door. Not two feet away was the cleaning man who sees me each morning. He wouldn't let me in! I am always polite and say 'good morning', but apparently that is not enough to breed comraderie. 'This means war!' I thought with my last dying breath, 'I'm going to walk on your freshly mopped floor without wiping my shoes from now on if I live through this!'. Luckily, a coworker came by and buzzed me through before I collapsed squeaking on the umbrella littered linoleum.

Now I plot my revenge against Cleaning Man. Muwahahahah. Okay, not really.

I have three more hours in this cubicle farm. The only thing that will get me through this day is making tiny tissue paper voodoo men of my coworkers, smuggling them to the bathroom, and burning them in effigy.

...I think I've drank too much coffee. *collapses*

I finally heard back from the apartment complex a few moments ago. I got the apartment! I'm so excited. However, they said that my credit score wasn't high enough so I now have to pay an extra security deposit of $464 dollars! I have never heard of such an outrageous request. Unfortunately, this is the best apartment I can find near my work with excellent square footage and in a semi-safe neighborhood. At least, the doors have security alarms installed for free.

This means, of course, that I must pay this heinous deposit in addition to my first month's rent. I'm going to be completely broke. I wish I could skip this vacation and then I would be perfectly set for the move. Unfortunately, the vacation is on Friday and everyone is set to go and I have already purchased the plane tickets. What ill timing!