Fuck.

George Brown is fucked.

This whole dependancy on a partner to gain full marks for MY college career is severely pissing me off. It's not my fucking fault that my partner-in-baking didn't show up 'cause her stomach hurts too much to stand for four hours (And the pain better be because of a knife that was lodged into her gullet, 'cause CRAMPS are not a passable exscuse for me). So why the feck should I have to pay for her absence?

I SHOULDN'T.

But I did. And today I ran around the lab like a mother fucking baboon, attempting to measure the correct amount of glucose (glucose sucks by the way. It may keep brownies soft, but it's a sticky pile of absolute shite otherwise) and pineapple chunks for ice box cookies and fruit cakes.
And the worst bit is... She gets credit for my ball busting.

Fucking George Brown.

She messaged me on msn this morning to ask me for our Chef's email address. No, "I'm sorry I'm not going to be there today Anna, I hope it doesn't put you out too badly", or "Shit Anna, I'm really sorry to do this to you, but I think a foreign species is going to bust out of my gut if I don't sit still for the rest of the day."

Just: "Do you have Chef Shabler's email address? Cause I feel icky."

FUCK. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck.

Now I know why, "fuck" is a Chef's favourite word.