Today was Kissy Boy's last day at work. He said he was fed up with the place and that we should try to get the fuck out of there. Call centres are a dying profession he said. In the future robots would do the work for us and we'd lay around all day getting suntans and working on our beer guts.
Then with a quick fuck you to Truffle Shuffle, he said he was going to say it to his face but he only said it under his breath, Kissy Boy was away, breaking the hearts of every girl on the floor. Kissy Boy said he didn't care because they all looked like they'd been born here and would, hopefully, he nodded at Little My, die here too.
She snuffled a laugh like she thought he was joking but he was dead serious. He has a point, not really about Little My, but about getting the fuck out of here. I don't want to be call centre cannon fodder. Our job is basically a buffer zone. No one ringing in to complain can actually get to speak to anyone who will do anything for them and we are expected to get them off the phone as quickly as possible. It stinks.
