Heya internet, this is Simone. The boss (which is what some of you lot call the ~monster~ [bossmanAd makes me use that because he hates synonyms and thinks lots o' words sound silly, but I digress]) but anyway he told me to write on here. He's so fucking anal about his system, you know. Total fucking one track minded OCD. And I don't give a fuck about being PC or polite or accurate because it's a description and I have a bullet hole in my leg so you aren't allowed to argue. So Adam is a total neurotic but I guess I'm stuck with him, but whateva. Anyway, I'm in the back of this van somewhere in central Africa whilst Ad goes out to negotiate with the tough looking armed militants who stopped us. All the locals seem nervous, which is a good sign. Sarcasm. Forget you can't type it. But swear to god, he comes back full of bullet holes and I'm going to kill him. Our confused Armenian friend keeps asking me what's going on since his grasp of English is-- well, it's not bad for three years work, but not good enough to keep up with bossman's fast talk. I have no idea what's going on actually.
But anyways; I have to angst about my life or sommat. I'm not going to ramble too much because I am trying my best not to turn into the boss, who never stops talking. Ever. Lawyer magic, I think. There's not much to talk about that hasn't been said a million times before by much more eloquent people than me. Dad was killed in a mysterious fire when I was twoish, we lived in a house by the woods, I have memories of a tall, dark, faceless, be-tentacled imaginary friend. Forgot about him for a few years, grew up, got a life, good grades, un degré dans les longues, minoring in International Relations, got a dull temp job courtesy of my mom. Yeah, not very ethical, but I don't have half the ethics of the bossman. Who is worryingly straight edged. Bet he didn't even sip wine before he hit twenty one. T'was good right up to the point where some guy woke me up from a nap by handcuffing me and putting a bag over my head, which is a privilege reserved for my boyfriend and not some random black ops guy.
I'm kinda sick of being away from home. Yeah, it's cool to be in Africa, and yeah I wanted to be here after graduation anyway. But... why. And that's not a pretentious why either, it's a "so many better places to put ex-illegally collected prisoners" why. I want to go home. Now I'm sounding like a three year old and there are gunshots outside, so yes. Going to stop typing. Laters, internet.