This will be the last post regarding that pathetic whale-beast, not only because devoting so much attention to her self-abuse is making me sick, but mostly because yesterday was my last day. That's right I quit. Not just because of her, or that horrible, vile, troll-manatee lovechild with the nebulizer, but because all of them together (including the fat whore that yelled at me for coughing, that woman with the moustache that wears silk, pirate blouses and always says "ding-dang," and the condescending office administrators).

In any case, I only want to share what I think is an occurrence of note. Last Thursday, some of the folks in the office ordered out for lunch. After Cynthia (that's her name) begged and screamed for a few minutes, the group acquiesced to her request and decided to go to Don Pedro's, a shitty Mexican place on 82nd Avenue. She got fish tacos. On Friday, the same thing happened. She got fish tacos. On Monday, it happened again. She got fish tacos. In case you don't know, a fish taco is merely a wad of fried fish (read: fish sticks) stuck in a tortilla. It was Tuesday, when she was eating her third fish taco, that I asked, "Cynthia, since last Thursday, how many fish tacos had you eaten?"

She paused.

She began to count on her fingers; both hands.

She looked me in the eye and said, "eighteen."

Apparently, I hadn't taken into account that she had some over the weekend. I turns out that on the previous Saturday, she had taken her breakfast, lunch, and dinner at Don Pedro's, and then dinner on Sunday. She eats four tacos in a sitting, the errant two were devoured Saturday at lunch.

Once again (says the circus ringleader) this is all entirely true, to the best of my knowledge.

On Wednesday, my last day, she got fish tacos again.