(Diversion: The realities of an overworked low-wage-earner loser is a case that should be documented already by Amnesty International. Imagine the psychological effects of seclusion and deprivation of proletariat ramblers like me due to perforated-pocket syndrome. Double whammy. I bet there are bazillions of undocumented (unsung, in a rather 'lyrical' melodramatic sense) out there that could rival the ever-increasing statistics of political prisoners and media slayings.)
Trying to dislodge the bossing irony, while sipping a pretentious mocha-on-the-rocks surrounded by noisy class A people and faux pas bourgeoise, I am again transported to that memory in high school, where the bossing etymology is rooted.
I was the only male cadet officer during the fourth year PMT heydays when commando-crawling in both rocky and muddy grounds and eating lamaw-like buffet gives a stupid adrenaline rush. Sir Sonny, our beloved commandant was not around during our pointless training month, and was replaced by the dominatrix Sir Emilia (his alternate name). If clinching the credits to sustain the honors thus the scholarship was not in question, I could easily have quit along with five of my guy classmates who shared to me they just couldn't stomach the pointless stupid training with the bitch. The other five called themselves "the quitters" and emerging as Alpha Co. Commander and only thorn among the brave roses, I was tagged their bossing.