Over and out.

Done. I am finished. Finished work. For a long, long time. Well, two weeks. Two weeks of glorious I-don't-have-to-get-up-at-six-thirty-ness. It is going to be good. Oh so good.
But before I managed to leave today, that bloody cafe still managed to take a peice of my spirit. I thought it couldn't get any worst than scalding my stomach on the coffee machine (the mark froim which is still there), but it happened. I had finished, I was signed off, I was happy, I sluged on my trenchcoat, and was about to walk out the door when I smelt the tantalising aroma of mushroom soup. So I went over, and filled a cup with its creamy goodness. But, oh the humanity! A mushroom, I repeat, a bloody mushroom, fell out of the ladle and onto the hand which held my cup. It hurt like needles. Giant, bruning hot mushroom shaped needles. I actually sustained quite a bad burn from that fucking mushroom. How completly pathetic.

At least the Soup tased good. WHO GETS THE LAST LAUGH, HUH? You may have burnt my skin, mushroom, but now you are inside me, experiancing the cruel and lengthy death that is my digestive system. The gigantic fall through my ascophogas, the burning pain of the acid bath that is my stomach, and, finally, the unamaginable and stinky horrors that reside within my colon.

So, think twice before burning me, people. I will give you a one way trip to Bowel.

(Cue Cymbal crash.)