I dislike all kinds of people. My hatred knows no boundaries, I believe in equal opportunity. I do not limit my hate by means of race, creed, gender or the like.

A short list includes:

• I hate anyone on the South Beach diet....don't they know that exercise is the only REAL way to drop the late night pizza weight?
• I hate my ex-boyfriend who is deluded enough to believe he won't miss me.
• I hate girls who wear tube tops with no coat during the winter and those same girls who are chilled by air conditioning in 95-degree weather.
• I hate Clay Aiken. I hate Juliette Lewis circa 1992.

But the person I hate the most? My boss.

My boss isn't a total bitch upon first meeting. She's blond and beautiful and busty and drives a BMW. She's always dressed to perfection (even on days where she sports sweatpants). She's sweet and asks lots of questions. She cares. She'll inquire why your hair looks greasy or frizzy. She'll often ask point blank, "Why are you so fucking stupid? What the fuck is wrong with you?!"

Never Mind. My mistake -- everything about her is bitchy. Even her name.

Devil, thy name is Bianca.

Bianca is my warden at the work camp housed in the depths of my "glamorous" television job. I am one of the nameless faceless Production Assistants in New York City. I wear blue jeans and sneakers to work. I am never without my pager and I have been cut off from any human life unaffiliated with the office cult. I am a number -- a cog in the machine. Last week, I clocked 92 full hours. At the end of the season, I will break down from sheer exhaustion and the inevitable scurvy I will contract from a diet consisting solely of Pirate's Booty and Diet Coke. The brass knows this; they don't even bother printing us business cards.

Bianca is the prison camp guard they've hired to keep me chained to my desk. She interrogates me about desk cleanliness, organization and possible weight gain. Any PA over the weight cap will be fired by the end of business. I've already got two strikes. I don't straighten my hair and I wear the wrong shoes.

This, of course, has nothing to do with my job performance. But it's all part of the game. And I asked her about the game...and why I play it so badly. In short, I sat down with my boss and asked her who the hell she thought she was...in an attempt to sort out our differences.

We started at the beginning. After graduating from college, Bianca left her New Hampshire boarding school roots and headed for New York City. She told me that she was so excited to work for our production company she actually burst into tears upon receiving her offer. I found it out of character and sweet. Using her Obsessive Compulsive Disorder to her benefit, she cracked the whip and ensured no fax lay dormant and not a single pen remained uncapped.

After a horrific boss (who's treatment of her sounds vaguely familiar) made her work on her birthday, she had a breakdown and threatened to quit if she wasn't placed with a different team. She was and since she's had a long list of Production Assistants to torment. Most only last four months. (Editors note: I'm almost at five.)

We went through our routine. On a show day, Bianca and I arrive around 6:00 a.m. She'll straighten her hair while I run around and schmooze the guests. I understand it's her right to do so, I mean, she's been with the company four years....but why pace the office screaming for the lord to tell her why she must do everything herself? I mused if this occurred because she is crazy or from the liquid form of Ephedrine she consumes. We agreed it was a product of both.

If anyone looks stressed out or perhaps a bit teary-eyed, she'll come up behind them and cartoon-like get in her face. "Are you going to cry now?" she'll ask and bring the individual's distress to the whole office. She gets off on it.

During our conversation, Bianca wouldn't state her main issues with me. She told me that I am too smart for my own good. I asked about her tendency to embarrass further someone on the brink of tears. She shrugged and said, "Television is a hard business and anyone who works in it has got to have a fucking thicker skin than that." I agreed with her, but questioned her method....or why she has to be the one to correct their behavior. Bianca look uncomfortable and stared me down. She didn't have an answer.

I asked her if she was happy doing what she was doing. She laughed. "Right now, I hate this place."

We talked about whether or not she was happy with me as her assistant. She looked around at the other six PA's. "Everyone else here is fucking stupid. I would kill them. Sometimes I'm glad I'm stuck with you."

A profession of love?

Days after the interview, Bianca reamed me out in front of a group of guests. I lost my temper and yelled at her not to scream at me (not a grand idea, given my sustained attempt at virtual silence). The rest of the day, I was tight lipped and she barely looked at me. My relationship with my boss is like that of a disgruntled parent in the midst of a divorce. I know she's miserable, thus I try not to get in her way. I keep my desk clean to her standards as to not warrant her wrath. I never use wire hangers. We went our separate ways for our first break since July.

I returned to an email that said.

I have been thinking about it

I am sorry for being crazy and yelling at you during the makeover show

I really want you to know that you are working your ass off and doing a really good job. I appreciate everything and I have voted you best PA ever...

Love yah Bianca

She even invited me to a party for the following week.

So when she's off, I best hide under my desk. But when she's on, there's no one better! I am glad she's on my side. I smiled. A small victory.

Then she walked by and loudly snarled, "Look at your fancy new shirt, do you think you're cool now?"

Fuck.