You were cool. WERE as in last year. You had the moment to make something of your incredibly slow, torchy vox and you fucking BLEW IT.
If I have to see one ONE more picture of your bald spots, your face scratched off or you in a bikini trying to hold up a pair of trip XS cut-off's, I'll poke my eyes out.
I heard you have Emphasema. Sweet. You should pull out your little throat box and do a collaboration with Mike Patton. He'd get you straightened out.
Ok. SO, there you have it. Get out of my EYES. I can't take it. You haven't produced anything worth listening to in forever. Why are you still singing in public? And fuck you.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Monday, February 25, 2008
You Sir, Are A Twat
Do we have any folders?
Do we have huge sharpies?
Where are envelopes...like these?
Uhmmm. Are we out of post-it notes?
How much are these stamps gonna be?
How much is an overnight shipment?
Are you all fucking kidding? Mondays are deadline. So, we're all doing shit. Alot of shit and under a lil pressure, too. So. How did you all fuckin forget that all the office supplies are where they always are. In the labeled cupboards.
So...where it says 'envelopes' that's where you could look. And maybe with the rest of the sharpies, is where you're sharpie would be 'hidden'. Maybe start there. And as far as your stamps? Well, stamps are forty-one fucking cents. Maybe you could look to see how many letters you have and just like multiply it. Yourself. I'm not the only bitch with a goddam calculator in this joint.
Or wait. Did you want me to get up and stand next to you? Is that what you want? Some attention, cupcake? Ok. I'll hold your hand. Let's skip over to the office supply closet. Maybe we can both peer into the cupboards like it's fucking Narnia.
Oh the boundless wonders of finding the shit yourself...sigh. It's breathtaking. All this scotch tape where it says 'tape' and the markers and post-it-notes where it SAYS MARKERS AND POST IT NOTES. Wow! You're right, sliding down a magical rainbow of incompetance and making other people do shit for you is way more fucking fun. But, I'm kind of busy. Doing what I'm supposed to be doing. My job.
If you see me frantically typing, clicking and pasting, don't fucking ask me to 'take 2 post-it-notes. write 'new logo' on one and 'old logo...how come?' on the other one. Why? Because you're too fucking lazy to write your own post it notes. Can you PLEASE fuck off. WHy don't you try actual cool pranks and not lame ones and then maybe MAYBE I won't wish you were headless in the snow.
And if you think that I have time to buzz you in ENDLESSLY after your 12 smoke breaks, lunch runs, Starbucks pangs and meter-feedings, you can get that off your fuckin mind right now. You have a key. BRING IT WITH YOU. Use. It. If you haven't noticed, my job is largely comprised of 'typing'. With two fucking hands. If I'm buzzin you in when you just didn't bring your key, I have to stop what the fuck I'm doing. GODDAMMIT does that piss me off.
Twat=You. Because you're thoughtless and rude. Twats think they're the only person in the room. You are a twat and you're making my life a burning, miserable hell. I don't usually advocate suicide bombers, however, you're makin a really good point. This office needs to be fire-bombed. Here's the NEW deal. You fucking do your own job. From. Now. On.
Do we have huge sharpies?
Where are envelopes...like these?
Uhmmm. Are we out of post-it notes?
How much are these stamps gonna be?
How much is an overnight shipment?
Are you all fucking kidding? Mondays are deadline. So, we're all doing shit. Alot of shit and under a lil pressure, too. So. How did you all fuckin forget that all the office supplies are where they always are. In the labeled cupboards.
So...where it says 'envelopes' that's where you could look. And maybe with the rest of the sharpies, is where you're sharpie would be 'hidden'. Maybe start there. And as far as your stamps? Well, stamps are forty-one fucking cents. Maybe you could look to see how many letters you have and just like multiply it. Yourself. I'm not the only bitch with a goddam calculator in this joint.
Or wait. Did you want me to get up and stand next to you? Is that what you want? Some attention, cupcake? Ok. I'll hold your hand. Let's skip over to the office supply closet. Maybe we can both peer into the cupboards like it's fucking Narnia.
Oh the boundless wonders of finding the shit yourself...sigh. It's breathtaking. All this scotch tape where it says 'tape' and the markers and post-it-notes where it SAYS MARKERS AND POST IT NOTES. Wow! You're right, sliding down a magical rainbow of incompetance and making other people do shit for you is way more fucking fun. But, I'm kind of busy. Doing what I'm supposed to be doing. My job.
If you see me frantically typing, clicking and pasting, don't fucking ask me to 'take 2 post-it-notes. write 'new logo' on one and 'old logo...how come?' on the other one. Why? Because you're too fucking lazy to write your own post it notes. Can you PLEASE fuck off. WHy don't you try actual cool pranks and not lame ones and then maybe MAYBE I won't wish you were headless in the snow.
And if you think that I have time to buzz you in ENDLESSLY after your 12 smoke breaks, lunch runs, Starbucks pangs and meter-feedings, you can get that off your fuckin mind right now. You have a key. BRING IT WITH YOU. Use. It. If you haven't noticed, my job is largely comprised of 'typing'. With two fucking hands. If I'm buzzin you in when you just didn't bring your key, I have to stop what the fuck I'm doing. GODDAMMIT does that piss me off.
Twat=You. Because you're thoughtless and rude. Twats think they're the only person in the room. You are a twat and you're making my life a burning, miserable hell. I don't usually advocate suicide bombers, however, you're makin a really good point. This office needs to be fire-bombed. Here's the NEW deal. You fucking do your own job. From. Now. On.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
dear john, paul, george and ringo,
I just watched the Beatles-inspired musical 're-imagination' of the 60's "Across the Universe". It was incredible. It made me want to be the artist that I was in my late teens. It remembered to me the Beatles era for me, which was high school.
I remembered stumbling upon the Beatles, digging deeper and deeper into their catalogue. (My parents were stoked, they're kid was finally listening to something that they could relate to. It was some sort of unrealized connection that we shared, mystical to me, glaringly obvious to them. The Beatles were a part of a social revolution. My parents were very active in anti-governmental movements...)
I was so purposeful on more. More Beatles. First it was 'Love Me Do' then the album 'Rubber Soul'. Once 'Abbey Road' and 'Let It Be' rolled around, I was a goner. A goner for those melodies and timeless platinum words. I remember being in eleventh grade, listening to 'Across the Universe' and thinking, 'i never want this song to end'. Looking back, I didn't have the life experience to really paste together what it all meant, myabe I still don't...but. Shit. "Nothing's gonna change my world." COME on. Very few songs make me tear up with the first few chords. I remembered wishing that after every verse that there could be, would be more. There was never anyone or anything to speak to me like the Beatles did. Now, certainly, I am a sheep that has fled the flock. I have put down my Beatles cd's for more modern sounds.
My darling love and I sat there, together thru the haze of rose candle and the scent of warming wine, and witnessed the pull on American culture that the Beatles actually had. So. That's that. Rent "Across the Universe". It made me want to be the girl I thought I was gonna be during those simple, sweet and innocent days in high school. Hearing different voices, different interpretations perform those songs really displays how timeless and imaginitive, ahead of their time that those 4 men and their work really was.
Strangely, I am moved most by the music and culture of the late 60's and early 70's. There was such honesty and clarity in the unknown. People challenged the state and the government with abandon. People were done being afraid, they were taking the country back. The Beatles were indicative of this. It was a time rife with love and darkness, people just feeling their way out. Now, those people are fat and tired, zombie-fied with the reality of kids graduating college or supporting their disabled spouses...hoping to maybe break even at the end of the month. So fast they all burned up, as soon as it was en vogue, the movement, the dissidence was finished.
Anyway, late night ramblings aside. "Across the Universe" inspired me artistically, emotionally. I remembered who I used to be and who I thought I should have been. So. Here goes. I've been pointed towards more Beatles and again...I'm listening. :)
I remembered stumbling upon the Beatles, digging deeper and deeper into their catalogue. (My parents were stoked, they're kid was finally listening to something that they could relate to. It was some sort of unrealized connection that we shared, mystical to me, glaringly obvious to them. The Beatles were a part of a social revolution. My parents were very active in anti-governmental movements...)
I was so purposeful on more. More Beatles. First it was 'Love Me Do' then the album 'Rubber Soul'. Once 'Abbey Road' and 'Let It Be' rolled around, I was a goner. A goner for those melodies and timeless platinum words. I remember being in eleventh grade, listening to 'Across the Universe' and thinking, 'i never want this song to end'. Looking back, I didn't have the life experience to really paste together what it all meant, myabe I still don't...but. Shit. "Nothing's gonna change my world." COME on. Very few songs make me tear up with the first few chords. I remembered wishing that after every verse that there could be, would be more. There was never anyone or anything to speak to me like the Beatles did. Now, certainly, I am a sheep that has fled the flock. I have put down my Beatles cd's for more modern sounds.
My darling love and I sat there, together thru the haze of rose candle and the scent of warming wine, and witnessed the pull on American culture that the Beatles actually had. So. That's that. Rent "Across the Universe". It made me want to be the girl I thought I was gonna be during those simple, sweet and innocent days in high school. Hearing different voices, different interpretations perform those songs really displays how timeless and imaginitive, ahead of their time that those 4 men and their work really was.
Strangely, I am moved most by the music and culture of the late 60's and early 70's. There was such honesty and clarity in the unknown. People challenged the state and the government with abandon. People were done being afraid, they were taking the country back. The Beatles were indicative of this. It was a time rife with love and darkness, people just feeling their way out. Now, those people are fat and tired, zombie-fied with the reality of kids graduating college or supporting their disabled spouses...hoping to maybe break even at the end of the month. So fast they all burned up, as soon as it was en vogue, the movement, the dissidence was finished.
Anyway, late night ramblings aside. "Across the Universe" inspired me artistically, emotionally. I remembered who I used to be and who I thought I should have been. So. Here goes. I've been pointed towards more Beatles and again...I'm listening. :)
Friday, February 22, 2008
Has anyone else noticed...
That Cleveland radio is like, the worst? It used to be tolerable...Rover was on in the morning, I had a few hours til O&A...and then I go home. Now O&A is on in the morning...so, I have to spend an hour a night updating my iPod and I pretty much miss O&A. To top it off, 92.3 insists on 'rocking out' all day...like we're not all fully bored with 90's music, (you can only hear Belly or fucking The Offspring so much) and it sucks.
And, don't say Maxwell, cuz that guys weezing makes me wanna barf...and OH yeah. He's not funny. At all. Fuckin. A.
And, don't say Maxwell, cuz that guys weezing makes me wanna barf...and OH yeah. He's not funny. At all. Fuckin. A.
FANgirl
It’s the late ’80s, and there I am in my Princess Leia t-shirt, my name ironed on in velvet letters, totally owning show and tell with my brother’s Silverhawks action figures.
It’s the early 2000s, and I’m riding to Akron with friends for a comic book convention and we’re discussing Batman graphic novels and why Dark Knight author Frank Miller is a freakin’ genius and the obvious superiority of the vintage green Hulk over a red Hulk. Superman? Total douche bag.
I am fangirl. Femnerd, if you prefer. A girl-geek daywalker. As a kid I moved easily between my hair-crimping friends and playing Zelda with my brother and his friends. I juggled the mandatory pink slumber parties with rousing bouts of GI Joe sessions (my brother had the Space Shuttle!). Paula Abdul and Debbie Gibson reluctantly shared boom box time with Weird Al Yankovic. Today, I hold down two very different jobs and spend as much time searching for the last Spider-Man Blue poster as I do for the right lip gloss.
If you think you could peg me as a nerd if you saw me on the street, you’d be wrong. I’m neither pasty nor pimply faced nor 400 pounds. I don’t dress in clothes I scavenged from a dumpster behind the Salvation Army. And I’m not alone.
Fangirl is cute, but not high maintenance. More feminine than tomboys, we walk the line between “mall sexy” and back-of-the-comic-shop couture. We’re the girls you cheated off of in class, all grown up. We like tight vintage t-shirts and hot designer jeans and Vans. We are not model pretty, but we are hella cute.
Fangirls are not offended or threatened by female comic book characters, with their the enormous boobs and ridiculous asses. Drool all you like — you’ll never meet Aeon Flux, or Six from Battlestar Galactica. We get it, they’re hot. But we’re human. Besides, have you seen the dudes from Supernatural? Lost? Even Harry Potter is looking better and better.
You can take fangirl girlfriend to see the new Rambo. Three times. She will eagerly accompany you to the comic book convention. She will actually suggest going to the Arms and Armor exhibition at the Museum of Art. Why? Because swords are cool. And suits made out of steel? Bad. Ass.
Dudes dig this, big time. We serve their nerdy needs. We can fill out a vintage Chewbacca t-shirt and look sexy in jeans and a pair of Converse. Cute and girly, dirty and tough. (At comic book conventions, I am a supermodel. The ogling and flirting never stops. I get stuff for free, or I get ridiculous deals. Fangirl’s boyfriend suddenly doesn’t want her out of his sight.)
And did I mention that we’re smart? We don’t just read books and watch movies and TV shows, we write backstories for characters and new “episodes” that we dream up (see FanFiction.com, whose content is provided almost entirely by women). We’re still girls, always wanting to know what others — even fictional others — are thinking and feeling.
When I hang out with my non-nerd friends, we talk about “adult” things, like relationships and jobs. But when I get back to my refuge, my “Death Star” (it’s almost fully operational), the nerd is unleashed. GI Joes line one end of a display case, old Hot Wheels the other. I have everything from anime figures to ShirtTales collectibles. I love ’80s toys. They remind me of the pure happiness of Christmas in the single-digit years, zooming my TIE fighter over the brown shag carpet without a care in the world. If that makes me a social outcast, I can live with that. My two prize possessions: a Sloth (from Goonies) action figure (not doll) and a Dwight K. Schrute bobble head, both gifts from my Nerdforce boyfriend. We are also in the process of spray-painting our garbage can to look like R2-D2.
If you are a closeted fangirl, it’s time to come out to your family and friends. Screw ’em if they don’t understand. Take back the Storm Trooper t-shirt you gave to your nephew. Dig out the action figures and comic books you’ve been hiding under your bed since forever. Meet me at the next comic con. Bring me your geek, your nerd, your binary codes. Bring me your pocket protectors and still-in-the-box Kenner toys. Unite. Why should adventures be just for boys? You’re either with us or against us. Resistance is futile. All your base belong to us.
It’s the early 2000s, and I’m riding to Akron with friends for a comic book convention and we’re discussing Batman graphic novels and why Dark Knight author Frank Miller is a freakin’ genius and the obvious superiority of the vintage green Hulk over a red Hulk. Superman? Total douche bag.
I am fangirl. Femnerd, if you prefer. A girl-geek daywalker. As a kid I moved easily between my hair-crimping friends and playing Zelda with my brother and his friends. I juggled the mandatory pink slumber parties with rousing bouts of GI Joe sessions (my brother had the Space Shuttle!). Paula Abdul and Debbie Gibson reluctantly shared boom box time with Weird Al Yankovic. Today, I hold down two very different jobs and spend as much time searching for the last Spider-Man Blue poster as I do for the right lip gloss.
If you think you could peg me as a nerd if you saw me on the street, you’d be wrong. I’m neither pasty nor pimply faced nor 400 pounds. I don’t dress in clothes I scavenged from a dumpster behind the Salvation Army. And I’m not alone.
Fangirl is cute, but not high maintenance. More feminine than tomboys, we walk the line between “mall sexy” and back-of-the-comic-shop couture. We’re the girls you cheated off of in class, all grown up. We like tight vintage t-shirts and hot designer jeans and Vans. We are not model pretty, but we are hella cute.
Fangirls are not offended or threatened by female comic book characters, with their the enormous boobs and ridiculous asses. Drool all you like — you’ll never meet Aeon Flux, or Six from Battlestar Galactica. We get it, they’re hot. But we’re human. Besides, have you seen the dudes from Supernatural? Lost? Even Harry Potter is looking better and better.
You can take fangirl girlfriend to see the new Rambo. Three times. She will eagerly accompany you to the comic book convention. She will actually suggest going to the Arms and Armor exhibition at the Museum of Art. Why? Because swords are cool. And suits made out of steel? Bad. Ass.
Dudes dig this, big time. We serve their nerdy needs. We can fill out a vintage Chewbacca t-shirt and look sexy in jeans and a pair of Converse. Cute and girly, dirty and tough. (At comic book conventions, I am a supermodel. The ogling and flirting never stops. I get stuff for free, or I get ridiculous deals. Fangirl’s boyfriend suddenly doesn’t want her out of his sight.)
And did I mention that we’re smart? We don’t just read books and watch movies and TV shows, we write backstories for characters and new “episodes” that we dream up (see FanFiction.com, whose content is provided almost entirely by women). We’re still girls, always wanting to know what others — even fictional others — are thinking and feeling.
When I hang out with my non-nerd friends, we talk about “adult” things, like relationships and jobs. But when I get back to my refuge, my “Death Star” (it’s almost fully operational), the nerd is unleashed. GI Joes line one end of a display case, old Hot Wheels the other. I have everything from anime figures to ShirtTales collectibles. I love ’80s toys. They remind me of the pure happiness of Christmas in the single-digit years, zooming my TIE fighter over the brown shag carpet without a care in the world. If that makes me a social outcast, I can live with that. My two prize possessions: a Sloth (from Goonies) action figure (not doll) and a Dwight K. Schrute bobble head, both gifts from my Nerdforce boyfriend. We are also in the process of spray-painting our garbage can to look like R2-D2.
If you are a closeted fangirl, it’s time to come out to your family and friends. Screw ’em if they don’t understand. Take back the Storm Trooper t-shirt you gave to your nephew. Dig out the action figures and comic books you’ve been hiding under your bed since forever. Meet me at the next comic con. Bring me your geek, your nerd, your binary codes. Bring me your pocket protectors and still-in-the-box Kenner toys. Unite. Why should adventures be just for boys? You’re either with us or against us. Resistance is futile. All your base belong to us.
Can't I Move My Desk to the Basement..?
This is not about anyone in particular, more an amalgamation of many things that make my life miserable.
So, my dry oatmeal and blueberries are sitting in the Tupperware bowl that I bring to work every morning. On top of my desk, next to my purse, two hands away from my Ipod, in the middle of my paperwork and coffee. In other words, this oatmeal is firmly embedded in the middle of all my shit.
So why does one of the dudes here, say from across the room, "HEY! Is that homemade?"
Before I can even look away from my computer, he has it in his hands, holding it 'up to the light', the kind of gesture you would use if you were inspecting an artifact with a magnifying glass...'up to the light'. COME on.
"whaa...?"
"What IS this?!" As if he's holding the cure for cancer.
"Oatm--"
"IT's WHAT?! Oh..oatmeal. Ok." slightly deflated.
"Yeah. Oatmeal. Just oatmeal."
"Oh...ok. Well. K."
Right.
Get out of my life. Seriously. Put down a lady's fuckin oatmeal. And, while I want you dead, I'd really like you to fucking quit reading over my shoulder. This isn't a very large area...soooooo. Don't come up behind, reach around my face for a pen.
Do not, repeat DO NOT, come up behind me, reading over my shoulder..."what is this..? Oh, you ever hear about them..? What IS this?" It's my work. It's what I'm concentrating on. Put down that paper, as I'm reading it. By myself. Did you happen to notice that I quit doing what I'm doing to stare at you?
And quit reading my calendar...example:
"soooo, yeah, just get that email out...whenever..." standing next to me, not talking to me, per se, just talking loudly to someone in another office...
...hey...Manson's not on Monday. Why do you have Manson marked on this Monday..?"
"Well, he's that Friday, but, I marked Monday because that's when my review is due. That's why I marked it on my calendar...so. My calendar. Is. Full. Of. My. Stuff."
"Ohhh. What's this mean..teeth...8?"
"My dentist appt at 8am." REally? Is there anything else I can do to de-mystify my goddam calendar? See, here? That's when I get paid...this is when my car insurance is due, that's when I renew my birth control pills...is this really happening? GodDAMMIT. Please. I just want to work.
And, if you don't read my articles, that's cool. My friends don't read them, not even my DAD reads all of them. It's easy for me to crank that shit out, and I get paid if you read them or not...so. When someone does read my stuff...it doesn't impress me...however. Listen in...
“…Hey.” I say slowly, methodically, uncomfortable, because suddenly you're sitting on my desk and you're roughly 57 years old.
“Ya know, I finally had time to read your article”.
Oh….wow. Who fucking cares.
“Oh, really..?” I half heartledly squeeze out the fake laugh that I usually reserve for my bartending job. “Cool”. I dismiss the conversation, can't you just get away from me..?
“Yeah, I loved it. I loved your article…”
“Oh wow. Thanks…that's nice, i--”
“…Yeah, I mean, I loved fast cars back then. Man, a girl like you in a car like that…Wow! Seriously, I’d have been all over you…OH man. Hot girls in fast cars? Whew”.
What's hard to translate is the wide eyed, thousand yard creep eye stare that this guy is doing. Hmmmm. I don't know what to do with this information. This is all so weird, because you're wearing a mock turtleneck....so. I guess I'm confused.
“Oh yeah. Man, I’d be making you pick me up!” he rambles on and on about something, cars..? Girls. Who remembers. This fuckin guy. My eyes are wide, my smile is mocking and knowing.
“Oh yeah. Fast cars.”
He just keeps going and going…
“You know, a lot of people don’t know that I used to be a race car driver…”
This isn’t happening. Please ring. Can’t the fucking phone PLEASE RING. ANYONE.
Now, all I can do is see him in the Mach 5 from SpeedRacer…or with like, a leather helmet. I try not to laugh, I want him to go on…”Yeah, I used to race cars…”
This can’t be real.
"No, I didn't know that...neat. That's...neat."
"Yeah..."
Dude. No one in this office knows how to end a conversation. And it confuses me, because it apparently doesn't matter that I'm not looking at you...not speaking at all and clearly typing something on the computer. You're worse than my mom.
Last one.
Them: “Is your hair different today?”
Me: “Uhhh….no. Yeah. Nope.”
Them: “Huh. Must be the black. You don’t wear black a lot…”
Hmmm. Really? Really. Because Carlos calls me ‘a lil too gothy’. If that gives you some insight, like, who says ‘gothy’ anymore? My parents. My parents say it. Oh, and Barbara Walters. She says it. So. Too much 20/20.
Me: “I wear black…” I let it trail off because I just hate this fucking conversation. I don’t know what to fucking tell you man. My hair is down. And, it doesn’t impress me that you’re trying to pretend that you notice my hair. If tomorrow, I robbed a bank and you couldn’t pick me out of a line-up, I’d be cool. We’re straight. I don’t want to be your friend. I don’t want to troll the Regal Beagle with you, throwing your dick at other 40 somethings pretending that they aren’t astoundingly single and lonely. Pathetic. Is a good word. You are.
The next day, I’m sitting at my desk, working. I have a red cardigan slung across my chair. I happen to be wearing a black t shirt. (Because you don’t own a black t shirt unless you’re a fucking Anne Rice character.)
Them: “Oh,” he chuckles, pleased, “…black t shirt…?”
Me: “Yah.” My lips are wrapped up in themselves like an annoyed pretzel. Because I just know. I know what’s coming next.
Them: “hmmm. Another black t shirt. Must be a whole black phase…”
Yes. I must be in mourning. For my alone time for today. For my patience. See, I’m allotted only a certain amount in a day. I spent it all on NOT throwing you through the plate glass window.
Really? Really. Dude. Seriously.
So, my dry oatmeal and blueberries are sitting in the Tupperware bowl that I bring to work every morning. On top of my desk, next to my purse, two hands away from my Ipod, in the middle of my paperwork and coffee. In other words, this oatmeal is firmly embedded in the middle of all my shit.
So why does one of the dudes here, say from across the room, "HEY! Is that homemade?"
Before I can even look away from my computer, he has it in his hands, holding it 'up to the light', the kind of gesture you would use if you were inspecting an artifact with a magnifying glass...'up to the light'. COME on.
"whaa...?"
"What IS this?!" As if he's holding the cure for cancer.
"Oatm--"
"IT's WHAT?! Oh..oatmeal. Ok." slightly deflated.
"Yeah. Oatmeal. Just oatmeal."
"Oh...ok. Well. K."
Right.
Get out of my life. Seriously. Put down a lady's fuckin oatmeal. And, while I want you dead, I'd really like you to fucking quit reading over my shoulder. This isn't a very large area...soooooo. Don't come up behind, reach around my face for a pen.
Do not, repeat DO NOT, come up behind me, reading over my shoulder..."what is this..? Oh, you ever hear about them..? What IS this?" It's my work. It's what I'm concentrating on. Put down that paper, as I'm reading it. By myself. Did you happen to notice that I quit doing what I'm doing to stare at you?
And quit reading my calendar...example:
"soooo, yeah, just get that email out...whenever..." standing next to me, not talking to me, per se, just talking loudly to someone in another office...
...hey...Manson's not on Monday. Why do you have Manson marked on this Monday..?"
"Well, he's that Friday, but, I marked Monday because that's when my review is due. That's why I marked it on my calendar...so. My calendar. Is. Full. Of. My. Stuff."
"Ohhh. What's this mean..teeth...8?"
"My dentist appt at 8am." REally? Is there anything else I can do to de-mystify my goddam calendar? See, here? That's when I get paid...this is when my car insurance is due, that's when I renew my birth control pills...is this really happening? GodDAMMIT. Please. I just want to work.
And, if you don't read my articles, that's cool. My friends don't read them, not even my DAD reads all of them. It's easy for me to crank that shit out, and I get paid if you read them or not...so. When someone does read my stuff...it doesn't impress me...however. Listen in...
“…Hey.” I say slowly, methodically, uncomfortable, because suddenly you're sitting on my desk and you're roughly 57 years old.
“Ya know, I finally had time to read your article”.
Oh….wow. Who fucking cares.
“Oh, really..?” I half heartledly squeeze out the fake laugh that I usually reserve for my bartending job. “Cool”. I dismiss the conversation, can't you just get away from me..?
“Yeah, I loved it. I loved your article…”
“Oh wow. Thanks…that's nice, i--”
“…Yeah, I mean, I loved fast cars back then. Man, a girl like you in a car like that…Wow! Seriously, I’d have been all over you…OH man. Hot girls in fast cars? Whew”.
What's hard to translate is the wide eyed, thousand yard creep eye stare that this guy is doing. Hmmmm. I don't know what to do with this information. This is all so weird, because you're wearing a mock turtleneck....so. I guess I'm confused.
“Oh yeah. Man, I’d be making you pick me up!” he rambles on and on about something, cars..? Girls. Who remembers. This fuckin guy. My eyes are wide, my smile is mocking and knowing.
“Oh yeah. Fast cars.”
He just keeps going and going…
“You know, a lot of people don’t know that I used to be a race car driver…”
This isn’t happening. Please ring. Can’t the fucking phone PLEASE RING. ANYONE.
Now, all I can do is see him in the Mach 5 from SpeedRacer…or with like, a leather helmet. I try not to laugh, I want him to go on…”Yeah, I used to race cars…”
This can’t be real.
"No, I didn't know that...neat. That's...neat."
"Yeah..."
Dude. No one in this office knows how to end a conversation. And it confuses me, because it apparently doesn't matter that I'm not looking at you...not speaking at all and clearly typing something on the computer. You're worse than my mom.
Last one.
Them: “Is your hair different today?”
Me: “Uhhh….no. Yeah. Nope.”
Them: “Huh. Must be the black. You don’t wear black a lot…”
Hmmm. Really? Really. Because Carlos calls me ‘a lil too gothy’. If that gives you some insight, like, who says ‘gothy’ anymore? My parents. My parents say it. Oh, and Barbara Walters. She says it. So. Too much 20/20.
Me: “I wear black…” I let it trail off because I just hate this fucking conversation. I don’t know what to fucking tell you man. My hair is down. And, it doesn’t impress me that you’re trying to pretend that you notice my hair. If tomorrow, I robbed a bank and you couldn’t pick me out of a line-up, I’d be cool. We’re straight. I don’t want to be your friend. I don’t want to troll the Regal Beagle with you, throwing your dick at other 40 somethings pretending that they aren’t astoundingly single and lonely. Pathetic. Is a good word. You are.
The next day, I’m sitting at my desk, working. I have a red cardigan slung across my chair. I happen to be wearing a black t shirt. (Because you don’t own a black t shirt unless you’re a fucking Anne Rice character.)
Them: “Oh,” he chuckles, pleased, “…black t shirt…?”
Me: “Yah.” My lips are wrapped up in themselves like an annoyed pretzel. Because I just know. I know what’s coming next.
Them: “hmmm. Another black t shirt. Must be a whole black phase…”
Yes. I must be in mourning. For my alone time for today. For my patience. See, I’m allotted only a certain amount in a day. I spent it all on NOT throwing you through the plate glass window.
Really? Really. Dude. Seriously.
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