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Gil Humplestead is a 23-year-old, recent college graduate who just got his first real job as a Junior Marketing Assistant Coordinator with Incorporated Partners & Co. Today, he chronicles his attempts at hiding his intraoffice hookup and his performance at the company Christmas party.
Monday, December 16, 2013
I thought I was done making mistakes ever since the Martha Manningham incident of 2010, but now I think I’ve really done it. I had a momentary lapse in judgement and might have jeopardized my future as a high-powered CEO in a yet-to-be-decided industry. God, I hope I don’t have to put this on my resumé. This could ruin me. It would wreck my reputation in the biz. No one can know besides you, Diary.
As you remember, I had seduced a coworker of mine, Clara, through an onslaught of Humplemakers (Miller 64 and peach schnapps) and excerpts from “Screw Business As Usual” by Richard Branson. I brought her back to my house and made love to her in the bone sled. I guess “love making” isn’t the best term for it. Clara really just kept trying to make out with me and crying about her ex-husband and her kids and then she just climbed on top of me and got naked, crushed my balls and I’m still trying to forget what happened after that.
Ugh. So disappointed in myself. I have incredibly high standards! My desperation got the best of me. Eight-months without any action can drive a man to extreme measures. I even thought about buying a Fleshlight. I’m a lone wolf out on the frontier of business. A business wolf. I eat when I can, and all of the fresh strange on the beaver buffet that is normally bountiful to Gil Humplestead had finally run out. Look at what I’ve become. LOOK AT WHAT I’VE BECOME.
The good news is that firing up the bone sled, despite it being with a wildebeest like Clara, has really given me a shot of confidence at work. My boss Terry didn’t even talk to me once this week. I’m a productivity whiz. I only spent three hours watching TED Talks yesterday. I can’t wait until I give my first TED Talk:
“When I started Humplestead’s Steak & Scotch House, it wasn’t a megachain. I was working at some low-grade job. I walked into my boss’ office, handed in my resignation and went to work on developing America’s first chain of power restaurants. I reached out to international power brokers like Donald Trump and Elon Musk, who are both here in the audience and were in my second wedding (hold for applause). When Humplestead’s was born, it was the proudest day of my life. What started out as a simple place for millionaires to eat lunch, turned into a power chain of fine eateries, and as far as the claims of it being a front for human trafficking, I have no comment (motion to security to kick out the dirty hippies throwing garbage at me). Now, I’m the richest entrepreneur in America and I own houses in 17 different cities. Thank you and good night.”
I have a longer version on my Macbook, but you get the gist of it. It’s a work in progress.
So back to the whole Clara problem. I woke up the next morning to a raging hangover and hopped out of bed. I didn’t have time to shower, so I just doused myself in Bod Man Body Spray and headed off to work, leaving Clara in my apartment.
The rest of the week went fine and Clara left me alone, but I can tell that I’m still on her mind. She keeps walking by the power cube just to catch a glimpse at my powerful delts that are hidden beneath my French collar. Many of my former lovers have been guilty of the same crime.
The company Christmas party was Friday, so I decided to go all out. My Gam Gam had sent me my Christmas money early, so I hit up Nordstrom Rack for a fresh set of threads. Brand new French-colly, black loafers and a fresh blazer. So hot.
I stormed into the owner’s house like I owned the place. His house was a palatial split-level with a two-car garage. It was a fully catered gala with a full holiday spread. I strolled over to the kitchen counter to pour myself a hefty cocktail to get in the holiday mood. They didn’t have my standard scotch and Pibb Xtra, so I went with a grapefruit vodka and coconut La Croix mixy (mixed drink).
I soon realized that I was the only person there without a date, so the pressure was on to impress everyone. I started off with the normal stuff: current events, politics and Obamacare. I was a real hit. Clara finally showed up after I was about four mixies deep. I was feelin’ it and Clara looked really good. She was wearing an oversized Land’s End holiday sweater (vintage) and leggings with cowboy boots. My loins ignited with the fury of 10,000 Spartan warriors.
I approached Clara and started spitting game, not that I needed to. Clara kept trying to get away from me, but I knew her desire to get Giledrived again was potent. I know I spoke ill of her earlier, Diary, but there was just something about her Liz Claiborne perfume mixed with the way her sweater draped over her lumpy, yet curvy frame had me howling for more.
The party died down and I needed a ride home. The mixies had taken their toll on me. Naturally, I approached Clara for a ride in her ’97 Celica and asked her if she “wanted to get out of here.” Of course she did. No one turns down seconds of love stew from Gil Humplestead.
Clara and I got down again that night. I’d say it’s official, Diary. Your boy is back.
Forever on a hot streak,