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.