Oh but the strawberries will never taste so good again and the thighs of women have lost their clutch!

Now that the initial rush of being gainfully employed has passed, I have a bone or two to pick with the powers that be, the almighty Job Gods, sitting in their spacious corner offices in the sky.

1) If you're not going to give me anything to do for two weeks, why am I required to sit staring at a computer screen reading random webpages for 8 hours? Why not allow me to be more productive, like sleeping till noon or sitting on my throne for an hour? (Believe me, it's where I do my best thinking).

2) Administration and HR departments must die. 17 times. If you're going to demand that all employees present their office IDs upon entering the goddamn building, then fucking issue IDs promptly. Don't make me stand down there convincing the security guards that yes, I do work here, we have this conversation every morning. You know you speak to me every morning because if you could undress me with your eyes any faster I'd be missing three layers of skin. And stop biting my boobs. That doesn't turn me on anymore.

3) As one of the biggest MNC's in the country, you really should have faster internet. You can afford it. C'mon, be wild. Go for broadband.

4) Give me the motherfucking office you promised me 3 months ago. The rest of the analysts have offices. FIND ME ONE NOW, BITCH. I need to be able to read my beloved Perez without the office boys staring at Lindsay Lohan's side boob.

5) Get me Illy's coffee. This Nescafe poison doesn't do it for me.

6) For that matter, add more restaurants to our immediate vicinity. A girl cannot live on Casper & Gambini's alone.

7) Seriously, the stock talk over lunch needs to stop. What's wrong with more conspiracy theory talk? That was fun. Or more on how King Juan Carlos told Chavez to shut up. Or that Italian football fan who was shot by police a zillion miles away. Or Xbox. Or hot chicks. See? I'm even giving you hot chicks. Just puhleeez, no more stock talk over my penne.

8) So this one hour of work a day? I'm still not over that.

Aside from all the aforementioned, I really must stop mumbling "I love my job I love my job I love my job" a la Emily from The Devil Wears Prada in the vain hope of actually indoctrinating myself. Grasping at straws never looks sexy. Even in a suit.