Sarah has had a brutal week of pumping her own tyres of Linkedin and is just about ready to loosen that corporate ponytail and let loose on the Terrace for Friday arvo drinks. She kicks off proceedings with a snap of a glass of bubbly in the boardroom alongside her leather document holder, she uploads with a caption that would give Patrick Bateman a white-collar superficial-stiffy,
“Just another week moving mountains and leading my team towards another successful first quarter 😉 Now it’s time to hit my champagne KPIs! You all know I do my best work in the boardroom 😉 #girlboss #corporatelife #onthegrind”
After 25 minutes of dominating the post-work social drinks with stories of her own office heroics, she decides it’s time to hit the town with her stiletto-clad Terrace gaggle. Watch out.
See, shit rolls downhill at her firm and she knows the only way to wash the hierarchical stench off her is to shovel the emotional manure on every city hospo worker that fails to meet her lofty standards.
After all, she has a second-hand Audi and a half share of a Subiaco townhouse with her sister. She’s SOMEBODY now you god damn, Swanny D swilling plebs that dare to darken her Alexander Wangs with your working-class shadow.
They arrive at the first bar and Sarah takes great delight in holding up the line as she flicks through the menu deciding which cocktails she’d like to order. Again, anyone ordering wine or beer should just shut the fark up, girl boss has the floor now.
After the cocktail photoshoot, Sarah checks her watch. They’ve waited 5 minutes for the share plates she ordered and in her view, that’s 5 minutes too long. She summons one of the bar staff over with her finger.
The staff member begrudgingly apologises for the “hold up” explaining that the kitchen is busy and it does take time for food to cook. This causes Sarah to react poorly. She busts into a rant,
“Explain to me why your glorified cook of a chef thinks his time is more important than mine? Do you realise how much I just spent at your shit little bar? I even had to ask twice for a tax receipt absolutely appalling service”
Like a karen-cowgirl, she quickdraws her leather notepad from her bag and brandishes her pen menacingly. BANG BANG, she writes his name down with a note to “follow up re: attitude”. She reholsters the pad in her YSL and shoos the man away. She’s finished with him now.
Several hours and many cocktails later, she’s absolutely steaming. She is unsteady in her heels like a dazed baby giraffe as she attempts to “network” with people she barely knows.
Her award-winning personality comes through again as she starts yelling at a girl she knows for not accepting her Linkedin request. “Did you not see it????” Someone call a door hanger because this one is unhinged.
Next, she feels the music is too loud and people aren’t able to hear about the solutions she presented to a raft of clients this week. So she goes full DEFCON 1 at the DJ and lets him know that he’ll be back to doing garden party 21sts if he doesn’t bend to her wills. He doesn’t and his name goes in the leather notepad. WATCH OUT, buddy.
After successfully alienating herself from half the Terrace she looks cross-eyed at her phone and she scrolls through the list of losers she’s met on Bumble.
She’s trying to decide which one to invite over under the ruse of fun times but in reality, just plans to unleash a full-blown ego attack as she complains mercilessly about everyone who failed to respect her authority this afternoon.
Should you be on that list, run. Run far, far away.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?