Once again... nothing has happened. For this reason, I am taking a hiatus. Mostly because I have absolutely nothing to say. For that reason, I am looking for another job. The maddness has to stop.

It's May 27, 2005. I need to get out of here.

Nothing has happened over the last few days... at all... hence my non-post-itice.

I think someone just ran into a wall.

There was a wail of commotion, a flitter-fluster-patter of sprinting feet down the hallway, a few more voices echoing emergency, then a resounding thud, and a piece of paper gently floating down to the floor right outside my cubical.

And now, silence.

I'm not going out there. That would just be stupid.

OMG.

Oh. My. God.
I just made a horrible, horrible mistake.

I asked the "Kay" woman what a particular meeting was about in the conference room, and found out it was about HMOs, then she proceeded to give me a rundown of her entire medical history, with a few choice quotes (i.e. "there's nothing wrong with my eyes, except for, I can't see) for a duration of time as to cause me temporary paralysis and blindness to the left side of my everything. "Kay" has apparently a lot to say and not enough people to say it to and I accidently fell into her line of yearning, lonely, sight. I'm getting out of here.

It's 5:15. I'm going home.

Why is it that stupid people flock toward elevators like an extremely obese person to a chocolate chip cookie? (Yes, I've been mentioning the hefty quite frequently, and no, it's not because I'm callous, it's because I can't see past them and that annoys me; like a compact car behind an SUV, you get pissed off too, right?).

At lunch today I had to go to a different high-rise building to obtain my paycheck and ended up in the elevator with a woman in a light-blue sweatshirt with a picture of a cottage on it, forest-green sweat-pants, large (but short), blond, curly hair, and the expression of an ant eater, that lost all of its ants.

As the elevator was about to close, a woman from outside frantically yells to wait, and our little dimwit friend, accidentally pushes the close button, instead of open. Luckily, the woman running to the elevator got her hand in just in time to have it crushed as the doors closed... then, of course, they slowly opened again. At this point the "one cow short of a herd" woman says, "I always do dat, press the close inted of da open." Then the elevator starts to buzz because, obviously, it's pissed-off that someone just rammed their hand through its hole (you would be too), and the woman then says "now dats you who startid makin all dat noise, why you complainin'?" giving a good stern reprimand to the abusive and angry elevator.

I gave a polite laugh. "Heh."

The other woman holding her hand did not (though it was just as moronic of her to stick her hand into an elevator when the door is about to close, but whatevs, I've done that).

The woman finally gets off the elevator, then before my entertained little corneas, looks left, right, and a little lost, then does a spin as fantastic as a Unicorn during a snowstorm in July, and exits stage left.

Elevators = Stupid People Heaven.

TEMP THE GUINA PIG, PART III:

Piece of advice to be charished, treasured and heeded:

If you find a perscription medication bottle, and the expiration date reads 5/16/2003, don't try and take the medication because you're bored and you want to see what happens.

It's just not a good idea.

The end.

It's... like 4:12? I have no idea I can't read the time, but I'm going home anyway.

TEMP THE GUINEA PIG, PART II:

So, through some slight research, which you can do for yourself (I provided a link at left right), I found out that Meridia is an anti Obesity Pill. Though, I apparently sound Obese when I walk, I am not even close to the fact, but I do know that any kind of pill that lends itself to the fight against Obesity, also lends itself to the fight against boredom, and the fight for productivity. So, about an hour ago I put on my Meridia Cape (large italic M, with little whoosh marks behind it* as to appear speedy) and began my journey into the world of "random prescription med I probably should not be taking."

After some time, I began to work, but also became distracted by the sever dilation of my pupils and the fact that I feel, not only really stoked out, but minorly affectionate… toward everyone.

Then I actually read the information on the web-site: "Meridia is a class of drug known as monoamine (serotonin and norepinephrine) re-uptake inhibitors. It falls in the same class of many anti-depressants such as Prozac." or, as it were MDMA. Which I will not go into explination.

Oooppps. "Serotonin re-uptake inhibitor," is not the same as "suppresses appetite and speeds up metabolism" which was my initial guess. So, I'm not really speedy, more like I feel the need for a good techno song and some fuzzy gloves… maybe a massage.

Well, at least I really REALLY like doing my filing right now, even if I am really entertained with how smooth the paper is.

* = M

*sang to the tune of happy birthday* Good morning to me. Good morning to me. Good morning tooo meeee. Good morning to meee.

Coffee? Check.

Fruit plate left over from partner meeting this morning? Check.

Bills that I brought from home that I plan to pay today? Check.

Little Rx pill called Meridia that I found in a drawer at my desk? Check.

Stoked on finding out the effects of Meridia? Double-Check.

For the last few weeks, I have purposefully (well actually not purposefully, if I could have been compelled to do any work, I would have, I swear to … whatever, but I couldn't…) not done any work. Now I have a stack of papers that measures approximately.. hold on… 15 inches… which would be basically a foot and a quarter of paper. Stacked. That I have to file. If you take into account that a "ream" (not my word) of paper is 2 inches and contains 500 sheets of paper… after we do some simple multiplication, with a little pre-algebra just for sass and flair, we find out that I have approximately 3,750 individual pieces of paper in a pile on my desk just waiting to be filed.

And with my little pill of Meridia… I'm going to do it.

I'll let you know how that turns out.

Über-Secretaries:

Über, being German for over, in the sense of greater, or "in superiority to," or "in preference to," which to me sounds a lot like Hitler's definition of the "chosen people," and reasoning for "the extermination of the jews."

and

Secretary, being "a desk with a small bookcase on top." Wait that's not right… sorry, it's "a person employed to handle correspondence, keep files, and do clerical work for an employer or an organization," if you take the word "person" and replace it with "bitter woman" we have our winner.

So, when you use them in succession we've got: "a German he-woman who thinks they are the chosen people, or in the superior ranks of the bitter women, whose livelihood consists of menial, menial tasks that monkeys should be trained to do*"

*I'm not saying that monkeys would like it either.

So there are a few Über-Secretaries at the firm that I work at. Unfortunetly, they are the best at their jobs, so you desperately want these women on your side, because if they smell incompetent fresh-meat (which by the way smells a little like 3 day old Salmon) they will rip you apart with their filed down teeth, and stick a letter opener up your ass. And that is exactly what has been happening to me by one of them, at an uncomfortable frequency.

Not that I'm incompetent, but unfavorably, one of the Übers who had actually liked me, and had respect for me before, found out that I don't like to file (which qualifies me as lazy), and therefore began her reign of terror.

Terror includes the following:

- Not looking up from your desk when I ask you a question.

- Scoffing at the question I just asked you, and saying "I don't know, I don't do that, ask someone else!"

- Snapping at me when I use the copy machine by your desk to make one copy to be scanned, because that is the logical thing to do and say "Don't use that copier, gawd!"

- When I try to explain the logic behind my decision, exclaiming this odd, "fffffsssstttt"-like, cat hiss from your oral orifice to shut me up.

- Standing next to me to wait for the elevator, then begin to talk small talk to someone else, completely ignoring my presence, saying "I have so much work to do…"

- When I chime in to make a comment, "really, I could help out with some stuff –" (obviously trying to take some of her work load off of her) continue to ignore me, and speak right over me.

- Then finish your conversation by saying to the other person: "Yeah, I opened my book last night, and I just couldn't do a thing. I've got a long night ahead of me. I hate pre-algebra."

Hold the phone. Pre-Algebra? This is the Queen-Über of the floor… she's probably 39 and has a glandular problem, and she's taking Pre-Algebra… but more than that she has "a long night ahead" of her toiling, and sweating over the pages of a 7th grader's math book… that I did for fun when I was 10?

Reign of Terror Complete. Any intimidation has now been deflated and is lying in a pool of ooze on the floor.

Yes. It's 5:15. I'm going home.

Yeah yeah yeah. I didn't write anything past Tuesday of last week. I noticed. Honestly though, if you read my two posts, you can see that the trend of my life was a basic black hole of boredom that threatened to envelope and suck in all matter that got close to its vacuum of unruly apathy and lamentation, crushing the spirit of life and joy with its anti-gravity pressure of skull-fucking tedium.

So, I chose not to update it, and you are the better person for it.

Actually, I will update it…. wait a second...

There - I went back and updated the last few days.

and I will find a way to entertain myself this week if it means stripping off all of my clothes and streaking through the reception area with my really loud shoes as to make sure everyone notices, then running into a wall with my elbows exposed just to see what happens. Oh yes, I will find something to entertain myself with.

Anti-gravity pressure of skull-fucking tedium.

Vacuum of unruly apathy and lamentation.

A basic black hole of boredom that threatens to envelope and suck in all spirit of life.

Alright. This has got to stop. Seriously.

I have a stack of filing approximately 18 inches in height sitting next to me, and I can't bring myself to do anything with it. I showed up 12 minutes later than my "late" time, for no reason whatsoever, besides the fact that I didn't want to get out of bed, and I kept waking up and smiling, smuggly at my alarm clock, thinking that I was tricking it by hiding under my covers.

I was just informed by the partner I work for that "the rest of the week is going to be pretty slow." First off: the rest of the week? It's Tuesday. Second: this week particularly is going to be slow? As opposed to last week? When I was on Vicodine? Does that mean that I get to take out a cot between the hours of 2:30 and 3:30, turn down the lights and take a nap? Because really, my work load couldn't get much lighter, and the "office" couldn't get much slower.

Okay, yes. I am complaining, and yes I should just move the fuck on... I will take any suggestions you might have today, because motivation is at an all time low... and, yes. I do have a work ethic. I take pride used to take pride in my work. But for now, it's a failed cause. I don't anymore... and I get paid a lot of money not to.

I'm tired. I'm really really tired. I drove two hours to work this morning, only to get here and do nothing. I'm falling asleep at my desk, and I've been doing that for the last four hours. I don't think the outfit I put on this morning matches, or is even appropriate for work, and I'm wearing those "loud" and "heavy-gated" shoes again today so I'm once again annoying the receptions (who, mind you, looks like she put on some weight over the weekend). I haven't been able to have a reasonable conversation with someone without, either yawning, or trying to walk away in the middle of it, because it takes way too much energy to keep it going. I want to call someone, but I can't think of anything to say. I want to read something on the internet, but I can't manuver my mouse. I am really fucking tired.

I'm not the only tired one though. I walked past a partners office to see him sitting straight up in his chair with his eyes closed, and in an obvious, "I just passed out from sheer boredom" pose. "Kay" woman has also cut down on her "Kays" by about a 80%, so obviously, she's not feelin' it either.

I'm so tired that I'm slurring my speech. It's 5:15. I'm going home... to go to bed.

So, let's recap… my tasks for the day were laid our triumphantly and predicted on, and I will now address each, and whether they made it to fruition:

1. I will file: ah, No.
2. I will take a walk at lunch: ah, No.
3. I will not surf the internet all day because my partner isn't here: ah, surfed the internet all god damned day long… but I'm a smarter person for it, so there.
4. I will make sure that everything is done for Monday: ah, No. Still stuff left for me to do…actually, I didn't do a thing, but don't tell anyone. It's not like anyone notices anyway.
5. I will catch up with my Cousin on the other side of the country using the free log-distance they offer here: ah, used the long-distance, but not for my cousin.
6. I will e-mail my friends in other countries because I haven't seen them in awhile: ah, Yeah, e-mailed my ass off today.
7. I will e-mail bloggers I don't know just to try and make them mad: proved to be too mean spirited and so I will save that for a day when I am truly in a rancid mood.
8. I will stalk my favorite bloggers because I'm bored: I didn't stalk him… I don't want to scare him away… I think he's cute. (even though I've never seen him.)
9. I will work on my Resume to get out of this job. Yeah, right.
10. I will not fall asleep. I will not fall asleep. I will not fall asleep. I will not fall … I did fall asleep a little bit there, but for right now, I'm going to go home, and have a beer and forget that I have to come back in approximately 64 hours from now.

Fuck yeah.

It's 5:15. I'm going home.

You know that thing people do sometimes, when they make a joke or light of something that obviously has been an issue and been annoying them for quite sometime, but they've never brought it up before because they are pussies? Like saying, "Wow, I haven't see you wear that sweater you always wear in awhile… you look really nice," or something of the sort?

Alright, I'm walking through the reception area which has marble tiles on the floor. Usually, I wear these little one inch heals, which, YES I will admit are a little on the noisy side when I walk. Well, today, I'm wearing flip-flops which are silent as a Mormon's wedding night. So, the Assistant Receptionist, who is sitting next to the Regular Receptionist, says:

"Wow, I didn't even recognize you without your shoes, I'm used to this heavy gate when you walk by!"

The Actual OldFatHaggard Receptionist: "I know, you would expect from someone who looks like a dancer (second time this week I've been referred to as a dancer by the way)*, this little Skinny-Minnie thing, who walks so loud!" For one thing, I'm not little. I'm 5ft 9. And I wear a size 10 shoe… the sound reverberation has to go somewhere, alright?

AssRec: "I know, even the client's look up, like 'yeah! I'm awake now!" Hardy-Har-fucking-Har...

At this point you have to understand that I am agreeing with them, trying to relay an antitode about when I was little - heavy walk, hardwood floors, mad parents, ect. - but they won't let me say anything; they just keep right on commenting…

FATRegReceptionits: "I know, every time, I know it's you, I don't even have to look up. I think 'oh, here she comes'" You know if I cared at this point, I would be getting self-conscious and embarrassed… IF I cared.

AR: "Yeah, you know, you're as thin as a rail*, but your walk, you sound like you're 400 pounds!" Jesus Tap-Dancing Christ people.

I try to give my antidote one more time, to explain the level of my self-awareness, but nope… no word in edgewise, so I turn around and say, walking back to my desk "Yeah, it's funny… my flip-flops are pretty silent though..."

You know, I half expect their following conversation to be:
"So, do you think she realizes it now?"
"Let's hope so, I mean, she's the only one who doesn't notice it"**
"Whew… I think we might have gotten through to her…"

Yeah, people. Clear as a fucking bell on Christmas morning. I realize that my walk is loud and obnoxious and people look up to see whose coming… I realize this annoys you… am I going to stop? Nope. I'm not going to change a Goddamned thing.

*The only reason why I think that they think I look so thin is because they are so mammoth in size… that's what happens when you sit at a computer/reception desk all day, and then go home and watch American Idol while munching on Cheetos… just sayin'.

** I have known that I'm a loud walker since I was around 4 years old. Like several special idiosyncrases, it has been the subject of many arguments with my parents, and significant others, but like many things (my messiness, my inability to spell, the fact that I don't know my left from my right, my affinity for prescription pills), I am very VERY aware, and I'm not going to change it. So you love me and find my flaws endearing, or you can go fuck yourself.

The bored is strong in this one (today):

So, not only have I avoided doing all possible work today by visiting my Rampant Interests off to the side ==} , but I have created a faux-hawk in my hair, which I am very proud of, I have counseled a woman on her situation with her oldest daughter (who is roughly my age) and, AND I just realized I am a FUCKING GENIUS when I went down to order Hamburger and Fries from the cafeteria, and I found out that I can get free salad dressing, so I get Ranch with my fries INSTEAD of Ketchup! For free! It's the best thing EVER!!

Fuck Yeah.

Alright! We're back to Friday, off the Vike-train, awake, and rearin' to go – bring it on! Oh, wait, there's nothing to bring on? Oh, really? Oh… I forgot, my job has the complexity of trying to put a square peg into a round hole: pretty soon, you realize that it's not going to work, and you start taking Vicodin again. Wait that's me…

I kid! I kid.

Not today! Today, I'm going to accomplish the following tasks:

1. I will file (It's not that funny, stop laughing).

2. I will take a walk at lunch (Kay, that was funny, by all means).

3. I will not surf the internet all day because the Partner I work for isn't here! (HAHAHAHaHaHahahahahahahah!!! Whew, I think I just peed a little, that was fucking hilarious).

4. I will make sure that everything is done for Monday (I might do that, but you have to understand at this point, that's pointless, because that just means that I will sit here on Monday and do nothing… it's a cycle of non-work).

5. I will catch up with my Cousin on the other side of the country using the free log-distance they offer here (Yes, that sounds viable).

6. I will e-mail my friends in other countries because I haven't seen them in awhile. (ditto on the viability)

7. I will e-mail bloggers I don't know just to try and make them mad (that just sounds fun).

8. I will stalk my favorite bloggers because I'm bored, and try to get them to banter with me (I've already done that today).

9. I will work on my Resume to get out of this job (Ug. I always say that).

10. I will not fall asleep. I will not fall asleep. I will not fall asleep. I will not fall …

Because of my inability to completely be normal due to the fact I've been downing Vicodin for the last few days because of "pain," there have been several funny things, that I just stare at, and cannot put into words, as I am a complete Viked-out-slap-happy-fun-loving moron. And if I were me (which I am… hold on, this will go somewhere) and I saw me (wait for it) right now, I would write about how there is this chick that is totally on Vocodin, which I am. (Fuck, totally fucked that one up… there's Vicodin for ya… let me start over, I know I can get it).

Kay... if I wasn't me... but I was another person in the office, who wrote about weird things in the office, and I saw me walking the halls hopped up on Vicodin, I would totally go back to my desk, and write about me. There. That was it. Right?

It's 5:15. I'm going home.

It smells in here. But not a normal "death" smell or something like that, there is an amalgamation of smells wafting in and out of the office today, and it's getting on my olfactory nerve.

First off: There was a mishap with a sweet potato yesterday. Apparently, it had been left in the microwave for the amount of time it would take to fully de-feather, baste, and cook a baby bird, and it was nuked into what appeared to be the afterbirth of nuclear waste. It made the entire floor smell, and let me tell you, as you probably already know, in high rise buildings (one of which I do work) there are no openable windows. So the administrative-slaves set up high-powered industrial fans all over the floor, and, because there are none of these aforementioned openable windows, the air is just blown around in one big ironic circle. Thus, today it still smells like sweet-burntown-potato. It's gross and as far as I'm concerned (the laws of physics be what they may) the smell isn't going to go away unless someone opens a fucking window.

Secondly: TMI woman (to refresh memory, I know ever so more about her bodily functions than I ever… EVER wanted to) has a burn. She's had a burn for the last three months, either that or she's gotten addicted to Tiger-Balm, or whatever heinocity she uses as "ointment" (wow, what a gross word that is, eh?) for this supposed "burn". She's the walking causation of why my eyes are watering and nostrils are burning right at this very moment. It smells like Eucalyptus-mint-burnt-hair-Wasabee and it makes me want to kill my sense of smell with the sweet sting of punching-myself-in-the-face-as-to-give-myself-a-bloody-nose.

Third: I think I might smell because I didn't take a shower last night, or this morning. You see, my boss wanted me here a half-an hour early, and I have my mornings down to an exact science:

8:41 am – Get out of bed.
8:42 am – Get into shower.
8:45 am – Pick up clothes off of floor and get dressed.
8:47 am – Leave dwelling and hop in car in order to get to work at …
9:03 am – Arrive at work.*

* I will spare you the details of what I do in the car as a continuation of my process of awakening, but I assure you it's extensive.

Anyway. The boss asked that I be in at 8:30am, and so therefore the three minutes I need to take a shower in the morning are cut out of my day, and I simply go from "Get out of bed" to "Pick clothes up…" thereby laying the foundation for me to smell not so fresh this morning (Oh, and I'm wearing the same pants I wore yesterday, but I doubt anybody will notice... hopefully).

But I would rather smell myself than a mix of Sweet-potato-death-and-fat-tiger-buttered-in-mint-oil that's been lit on fire and is now roasting next to the copier, where I want to get my coffee. Trust me, I smell much better than that.

I think someone just lit fire to a small, sweet smelling aminal of some kind, because it smells so bad that my stomach wants to turn itself inside out just to offer some sort of distraction.

It's 5:15. I'm going home.

A woman who looks like she was probably the recipient of shock treatment therapy in the late 80s just asked if I was a Ballet dancer and then motioned with her hand in such a way as to convey an act of spontaneous dance.

I told her I wasn't. She then kicked out her leg to the side, and said I looked like one, while bowing slightly.

"Thanks?"

I have no conscious thought on how to appropriately respond to that comment, but I'm half-way expecting her to pirouette down the hall to the sound of Swan Lake.

I must have some sort of pheromone spray on me today, because against my better wishes, I've been engaged several times in slightly-awkward-conversation-with-the-stinking-air-of-sexual-overtone-coming-from-men-that-are-old-enough-to-be-my-father all day long. This isn't the amusing part though. The amusing part is that for reasons I might get into later, I've had to take Vicodin for the last two days to quell some "pain" of mine. So, not only am I apparently really cute walking around the office, but I'm cute and spacey: perfect for attracting older rich men like hoboes to a bottle of Johnny Walker Black.

Usual situation: I becomed cornered in an elevator, for at least 20 to 25 seconds, taking the brunt of initial side-glances and smiles until one says the following phrases, to which I have repeated the following various responses:

"You work here?"
Yes, No, Maybe, I'm a temp, I don't really know, hopefully not for long, why?, do you?, what's that smell?

"What floor do you work on?"
7, 5, 10, I'm just here to deliver flowers, 6, I'm sorry?, why?, not sure

"Are you a Partner?"
No, I'm a temp, I'm actually trying to not work here at all, no I'm just filling in, Yes, no I'm a secretary, no I would kill myself first; are you?

"Are you a Secretary?"
No, I'm a temp, actually I'm trying to be a writer, I'm an assistant, who's asking, why is my partner looking for me?

"How Long have you worked here?"
1 day, 2 months, I can't remember, I've taken too much vicodin today, what's your name? [sometimes I just hold up my fingers] 4 months? Oh, god has it been that long?? Someone Shoot ME!

"What floor are you going to?"
I'm getting off, I can see my reflection in the top of your head, I'm not sure, I started taking vicodin two days ago, in the grand scheme of life does it really matter anyway?

I've been riding the elevator all day long in order to avoid work, and the pressure of performing under the influence of pain pills.

It's 5:15. I'm going home.

There is a woman who works right next to me. She is short, stocky and over caffeinated. She also has hair that is shaped the way a woman's hair would in a 1950s HairNet commercial, if it were the color of dirt and leaves (her hair, not the commercial).

More than her amusing physical atributes, she has a habit of incessantly repeating an utterance that sounds an awful lot like my first name... which I will tell you for the sake of explanation (the utterance, not my name): "Kay" or "oKay."

As something that is common when someone says your first name, everytime she says her little word, I snap my head around to see who's calling me. It sounds to me like a loud, abrupt and demanding call for attention.

And she says this: All. Day. Long. When she's starting a task "oKay," she says it, and finishing with a task "Kay" she says it. When she's walking by my desk to complete a task "Kay," and then walking back to her own to begin another one "Kay;" When she's going into her bosses office to help with a project "oKay," and then returning to her own desk "Kay" to make sure that it is done "Kay." She remarks this when she comes in for the day, "Kay," preparing for a meeting "Kay", and when she is cleaning her desk "Kay" in order to go home "Kay." It's like some sort of hideous OCD-therapy. Or she's just always on the verge of a nervous breakdown and she must steady herself and reassess the situation: "Okay."

Whatever the retarded reason, this is impeding on my sanity, because I still perk up each time she feels the need to express a function (of any sort), as to induce a slight state of schizophrenia, which is now turning to full blown paranoia.

Ug.

It's 5:15. I'm going home.

DESCRIPTION OF BOREDOM NUMERO UNO:

Currently, I am working for a younger, NewYorkian, "if I were in any movie, I would definatly be the neurotic lead of a Woody Allen film" Uber-Jew. He has this intrugeging habit of pulling his pants up so far above his waist, as to taunt the great Newton himself, which makes the cuffs of his pants come to rest about a half- a-foot above his ankles. It's truly breathtaking… However, he is cool, and I like him.

I'm surpised, at this point, he hasn't transferred me out, because last week I was functioning as the embodiment of the following metaphors:

1. A gay interior designer who, after being told that the kitchen in his client's new-house is being covered completely by Linoleum, falls into a heap on the floor sobbing, where he is immediately consoled by his assistant, donning a hand full of Pills, and a cup of vodka.

2. A billionaire's Pill-popping, trophy-wife who, after finding out that Fredrico the pool boy isn't coming today, decides to scrap her whole "get out in the sun for once this week" idea, and retreats back to her room to watch Dynasty reruns, pop Pills and drink vodka.

3. A six year old who was just told that Santa Clause, the Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny aren't real, all at the same time, and immediately turns into an apathetic, miniature Nihilist, downing his first dose of Pills and and taking a shot of vodka.

In conclusion, disgust, distress, hopelessness, confusion, apathy and nihilism is the basic description of my daily humor.

Yeah…

So, the 64-hours that I was so stoked about on Friday have officially come to their natural conclusion, and I am back to that same boring place that I was last week… I have a torturous 4 days until I can go back to my manic state and exclaim my adoration for my fateful favorite day, so let me do a quick recap of last week, because it absolutely fucking blew.

To catch you up: apparently, I've been moved to a stationary position within the company that I work for, instead of being transferred from desk to desk encountering the wonderful and strange each day that I've been so fond of. This means that everyday I sit at the same desk, look at the same people, avoid the same work, have the same conversations, go to the same bathroom, where I again, walk past more of the same people, and then try to sleep in the same stall that I've been trying to sleep in all week long.

Unfortunately, NONE of the people around me are remotely interesting. Therefore, I will catalogue their last-week's boringness with tenacious fervor throughout the week, in order to catch you up with my world.*

I apologize for not keeping you updated as much as I should have last week. But you have to understand, when you're main source of material in making boring things seem slightly amusing, when even the boring gets boring … It makes you want to burry your face in your hands and cry.


*It gives me something to say this week, because I know for certain that nothing will happen.

It's Friday!! T.G.I. F.R.I.Day!

I don't have to work for the next two days! Wahoo!

I don't have to sit in one spot and stare at a computer screen, trying desperately to entertain myself with current news stories and gossip! Whatawonderful hopefulday Friday is! Promise for the future! A resolution to the week! A break in the monotony of life, which comes 52 fucking times a year!! Thank you god for creating Friday!!!

It's 5:15. I'm going home... for the next 64 hours.


Fuck Yeah.

Work related things that I did today:

1. Faxed out a copy of a letter.

Ta-da!*

It's 5:15. I'm going home.




*Have I mentioned that I make an inordinate amount of money doing absolutely-fucking-nothing?

I can't justify the day I had with any comment whatsoever. Instead, I will vacantly stare at my desk until I have something to say.

Fuck it. It's 5:15. I'm going home.

Yes, I came to work today. No, nothing happened.

I didn't do any work. No one said anything slightly amusing as to send me into a fit of internal laughter to where I just HAD to share it with someone. No one broke anything slightly amusing. There were no outlandish ties, or silly shoes. No one lashed out in a fit of flying obscenities or began staring at random spots on the wall, with no conscious knowledge of anything going on around them. There was nothing.

I just sat at my desk and gazed, longingly at the telephone to my right, and the computer in front of me, hoping that by some mysterious force, my telephone would spontaneously combust, and/or my computer screen implode.

But, alas, it didn't happen.

It's 5:15. I'm going home.

Currently, a series of ailments (cyst on middle finger, growth on retina, broken-fuckin-elbows, inability to look down) have befallen our noble administrative and secretarial staff. Because of this the word "roam" has been taken out of my label, "roaming temp," and replaced with the word "fuck," as I am now in a semi-permanent position for the next three long weeks. This poses a problem for me, because there is not that much work for me to do, and more than that, there is nothing new for me to report on…At all.

In fact, this absolute vacuum of activity has lead me to accomplish the following tasks today:

1. looked up "Super Aids," and discovered that the New York Gay Scene is fueled by Crystal Meth and ranging super orgies (later I discovered that "Super AIDS" was a hoax, fueled no doubt by Republicans smoking Crystal Meth and participating in raging super-orgies);
2. looked at all the pictures of Brad Pitt and Angelina Joli in Africa together, postulated on their current relationship and came to the conclusion that I wish I had a sand bucket to play with right now;
3. ate two lunches for no reason, and thought about going for a third;
4. stood in the bathroom for awhile closely examining my face for imperfections, taking intermittent breaks when people would walk in, as to not look vein... or psychotic;
5. talked to my friend on my cell phone about the state of my never ending search for the perfect vacuum bag - likened it to a Seinfeld episode, then thought about writing a script;
6. read every article on CNN.com twice;
7. read my horoscope... twice (apparently the astral energies are shaking up my life... how exactly, I am not privy to yet);
8. read the Libra horoscope... twice... for no particular reason (If I were a Libra, I would have money problems today and a conflicting sense of self... which leads me to ask the question: doesn't everyone have money problems and a conflicted sense of self? Discuss.);
9. looked up pictures of the new pope, where it appears that he is donning devil horns. Photoshopped them all into one document and mass e-mailed it to my friends, under the title "All Hail the Dark One!";
10. played repeatedly with a magic-8-ball asking it, "am I going to get to leave early today," or "am I going to be rich in the future," or "am I going to someday do something fulfilling?!" or "is my headache going to go away!?!" it repeatedly responded with CHANCES AREN'T GOOD… I think it's broken.

It's 5:15. I'm going home.

It's Friday afternoon, and I've attempted to now take a nap in the following places: under my desk, in the bathroom, in the bathroom stall, and in the partner's office that I'm working for (he has left for the day). All I want to do is go to sleep, and now I can: It's 5:15. I'm going home.

The secretaries are fucking freaking out. Apparently, this weekend the apocalypse is coming to the building and rendering all locks on office doors and all computers completely useless for a time just long enough to completely fuck everything up, unless proper protocol is followed today.

These necessary formalities include, changing out all the keys to the offices in the building, and turning off all the power-strips to the partners and secretaries computers. We received new keys to the offices this morning, and they took the "old" keys away from us; though, perilously enough, the old locks still remain... (*dundundun...*)

To give you some back ground:
1. Secretaries have keys to all partners' offices.
2. Partner's never read e-mails concerning administrative tasks.
3. Partner's rely on their secretaries to do all administrative tasks, and read their e-mails for them.
4. Secretaries are very invested in partners' state of happiness and therefore will go fall into spontaneous epileptic fits and start speaking in tongues if there is the possibility that things won't go right for the partner if they are out of the office.
5. It is Friday night and all partners leave at around 3pm.
6. Partners lock their doors when they leave.

With all of these points added up we get a shit storm of frenzied horror sprinting around the halls because the secretaries realize, that with the locked doors, and their lack of keys to fit those doors, there are computers that are still on, via power-cords, inside the partners offices just sitting there, waiting to be deep fried in whatever Terminator-style-electrical-storm that is going to rain down hellfire on this building this weekend… and no one knows what to fucking do!!

I've been attempting to take a nap under my desk for the last 15 minutes and have been frequently awakened by the clucking of panic in the air. I don't really care what happens to the computers… they could all start playing non-stop-internet-porn on Monday, lose all office related documents, and start spewing endless pages of Rosie O'Donnell's blog simultaneously out of all of the printers in the office, and that would just make things more interesting for me.

There is a post-card tacked to a bulletin board in front of me. It has a picture of a feisty-female senior-citizen, donning a hot-pink wig, matching eye makeup, bright red lipstick, the vacant stare of the last days of life mixed with a heavy prescription of Vicodin, and a dialogue bubble which says, "We can LICK anything if we try!"

Yes. Yes it does.

After my little elbow ponderfercation with the other secretaries, we started to get into a conversation regarding embarrassing things that happen in public. One of the embarrassing things that was mentioned was getting your high-heel stuck in the little space between the elevator and the floor your on, when the elevator door is open.

I said, "yeah, totally, I hate it when I'm at a hotel, and I'm trying to leave gracefully, and that happens, it's so embarrassing…"

Do you think they're wondering what I do on my off-time?
Because I would.

It's 5:15. I'm going home.

As a few of us were gleefully discussing the series of events that could possibly lead up to someone breaking their elbow, let alone both of them, I came up with my own conclusions, which to me are much more interesting:

1. Your hands are full: a StarBucks Coffee in one and a Pastry in the other, and you would rather save them both than yourself.

2. You tripped while looking up, thinking that you could possibly grab onto the leaves above, or perhaps a cloud, instead of bracing yourself from the ground below.

3. You have a disease which makes you immune to having inherent natural reflexes to certain events, like kicking when the doctor taps your knee, flinching when someone claps in front of your face, or putting your hands out when you fall… instead of your elbows.

4. You have glass elbows, and when you fell you put your hands out, but both of them shattered under the pressure.

5. You have regular elbows, and when you fell you put your hands out, but the weight of your mammoth body was too much for them, and both of them "broke" under the pressure.

6. Elbows really aren't made for any kind of rigorous activity and it's a fucking miracle that more people don't break them all the time.

7. You were playing a game of jinx, after you and another secretary said the phrase "make a copy" at the same time, but instead of being silent, the punishment was to keep your hands elevated above your elbows at all times… and you are a staunch enforcer of the rules of jinx.

8. You ran straight at a wall, elbows exposed, in an attempt to get out of work for what I've heard is around six weeks. Mission Accomplished.

Whatever the cause is – which still at this point is an enigma, wrapped in a riddle, dancing with a conundrum, who just had sex with a cryptogram – it's gotta fuckin' suck.

The woman who I'm filling in for today is out because... get this:

She broke her fucking elbows.

Both of them.

There is nothing more to say at this point.

The elevator is always a crapshoot for me. It has that awkward air of sitting next to someone on an airplane after you initiate conversation. If there are only two of you, and no other distractions, aren't you hesitant to engage the other in small-talk? Because, honestly, what if you run out of things to say? Then comes the inevitable awkward silence. I don't think so... not me... What do you expect me to do, stand there for the next thirty seconds looking at the floor-counter, waiting, WAITING, for my floor to come, as I shuffle my feet, and shoot sporadic and cumbersome smiles to the person I just tried to speek to… and now wish would just be the bigger man and get off the fucking elevator? No. Thank. You.

Or what if you know the person in the elevator that you are riding in, and then you are obligated to say something. Ha, Ha! Not always. Sometimes you both just sit there silent, ignoring the grossley obese pink elephant that is standing between you, taking up the other 2,480 pounds capacity.

These are all amusing situations that usually give me a rush better than a speedball on Christmas morning. But the best is overhearing conversations, while surreptitiously standing in the background.

Today, after incurring a brief silent stint with me, a guy, and that pink elephant, my companion and I were thankfully joined by two other people. The first is a woman so large, I fail to recognize how she walks through doors (we will call her "SoL"), and then an Older Gentleman ("OG").

SoL: Looking intently at OG, (dare I say drooling?) "That was so darn funny, don't you think?"

OG: "Yes, it was amusing to see her react like that…" He looks at his feet and begins to shuffle.

SoL: "I know it was HI-larious, she just loved it."

OG flashes that magically combersome smile...

SoL: "I mean, those were the most perfect key chains I ever saw…"

Stop. waitasecondnow.

Never mind that I didn't realize key chains could come in "perfect," but: I. Ever. Saw.

I ever saw? Taken completely by surprise at the numerous grammatical mishaps in the latter part of that sentence, I quickly exited the elevator and returned to my chair.

"I EVER SAW." I sat staring at a blank sheet of paper, my elbows resting on the top of my desk, my hands rubbing the temples of my head.

Okay. Let me just try and lay this one out: How do you say that the key chains you just happened to view in the last week or so were the most impeccable ones that you have ever encountered in your entire fucking life?? Because I know it's not "I ever saw."

Is it "I ever seen?"

Rubbing temples harder: "I have ever saw?… I had ever saw? … I have ever seen? … IS that appropriate?!?"

"I'd ever seen!" Yes. That sounds right. I. Had. Ever. Seen.

But, does that constitute speaking in the past tense? Because apparently she was witness to these god-like key chains in the recent past, which means that since then she could have happened upon EVEN more indefectible and sublime key chains, which she isn't mentioning. But if she hadn't since then, at this moment, shouldn't she say, "I have ever seen?"

O' My God. My brain is beginning to ooze out of my ears and soak into the computer keyboard.

It's 5:15. I'm going home.

So, I've been sick for the last two days… no, no, really I have.

And the thing with never being sick (please refer to Friday, April 8) is when I do actually get sick, I think I'm dying via sever-sucking-lesions of Melanoma munching at my skin, while I've three leaches that have crawled up my nose, and are now feeding on my brain, and I've just been leveled by electric shocks as to send my muscles into an early stage of atrophy.

And I let everyone know. Everyone.

Especially the people I work with when I come back.

Sniffing. Red-nose. Watery-eyes. Gravely-voice.

"Hard Weekend?" asks Person Who Knows Me Too Well.

"No!" (offense unwarranted and probably over exaggerated.)

"I'm sick." Pout.

(and just for good measure) *Sniff*

I'm siiiiiiiiiiick...*


*said in a whiney tone only audible to dogs... and my friends.

Stuffy head, runny nose, sleepy brain.
I'm going home.

The Smiley Faces are watching me.

1. Right in front of me: a large Smiley Face is peeking out from behind the computer screen. All I can see is the top of its yellow, bulbous head, and its black, vacant eyes – it's staring directly at me.

2. File separator to my right: there is a postcard which reads "Don't worry, be happy" with a Smiley Face stuck to the outside. It too is ogling me to my soul, but more than that, it's telling me not to worry… which at this point, isn't really an option.

3. Picture frame to my left: it holds a picture of a little league baseball team. There are four Smiley Faces (one for each corner) arranged at a slight angle, as if to convey empathy or concern; their troublesome smiley expressions surveying my every move.

4. Behind me: a calendar with a picture of a family standing in front of an obscure body of water. There are two woman, two children, a baby, and a Smiley Face stuck over what was once a man's head. The caption reads: Christina, Smiley, Daniel, Noelle and William - 2004 (the word Smiley has been cut out and pasted over the man's name). That Smiley Face, too, is boring a hole through the back of my skull with its beady little eyes.

Obviously, that's exactly what the man was doing to the woman who sits here, hence the need for decapitation via Smiley Face.

It's 5:15. I'm going home.

There is a partner around the corner from where I'm sitting, who is wearing an Orange I-should-be-directing-traffic-or-landing-large-jets-on-an-aircraft-carrier-with-this-thing Tie. It's so distracting that when he walks down the hall, each person stops-dead in the middle of what they are doing to stare at him and assess whether they should comment on it. Interestingly enough, no one has yet.

But I know everyone wants to…

One of my personal favorite games to play is, "I was born in…" And, then watch the recipient of that knowledge dash off to contemplate their own mortality, while sucking on a can of compressed air. I use this at times, like this morning, when I cannot comprehend my own name, let alone a two-way conversation about… whatever (please refer to Wednesday morning for explanation). And, since this game will only work for a little while longer, I'm trying to get as much use out of it as I can:

Greyhound Fan stopped by my desk a little while ago. Apparently, I remind her of someone that she knew a long time ago, who was married to the lead singer of a band called War,

GF: "I don't know if you remember them, it might be a little before your time. War was an offshoot, of like, the Monday's, who were really big when Tramline was touring, and I guess they sound a little like the Sounders - "

Temp: "I was born in 1980…"

GF: "Oh, God…," she says, with the blank stare of a Greyhound in headlights, "My step kids were born in the 60s." Then she slowly backs away.

Mission complete.

I left early today. Around 11:00 am. It was fucking GREAT.

You should try it.

I was moved to a new floor today to cover "overflow" in case anyone needs me. No one does. There is absolutely no work for me to do and almost no one on the floor, except for a woman around the corner who has a picture-collage of different Greyhound-doggies. She rescues Greyhounds from racetracks after they retire. We've been talking about Greyhounds for the last half-an-hour. She knows a helluvalot about Greyhounds.

She looks exactly like a Greyhound.
It's the little things that keep me going.

Stuck to the corner of the comupter screen, there is a picture what appears to be a very wet, and pissed off Cockatoo standing on a plate. The woman who sits here must have brought it from home.
It makes me smile.

It's 5:15. I'm going home.

The woman next to me is kind of freaking me out.

After this morning’s slight amusement of her incessant need to show me exactly where everything is, for example:

1. Temp: “Where is the Kitchen?” to which she replies, “Oh, it’s just… well, let me show you…” subsequently we walk across the three foot hall, and through the door that reads "kitchen" into the Kitchen. Viola.

2. Or, “um…where is the copy room?” Instead of responding, “well, it’s exactly where it is on every floor,” which would have suited me just fine, I get “Oh, it’s… well, let me show you,” and I find that it’s exactly where I thought it would be; in fact, I really don’t know why I asked. Voila.

3. and finally in a manic display of benevolence, she offers, “Oh, here is the women’s bathroom and the men’s bathroom, and here is the coffee in the kitchen, and some forks if you need them and the paper toweks are just over there,” exactly the way it is on every floor; "And I have M&Ms at my desk... if you want them." Got it… voila.

But, now, she is staring at a spot on her desk, where there doesn’t appear to be anything. I’ve asked her how to use the intercom three time now, yet she hasn't moved – her back to me and head slightly cocked.

“Carol?” I think that’s her name: that’s what it says on the little plaque by her desk.
“Carol? Um… how do you use the intercom on this phone?”

Nothing. “Carol?”

Nothing. I get up from my desk and peek around the other side of the small wall that separates us. Is she on the phone? I look. No phone. Just imaginary object of fascination on desk.

I return to my desk. I decide to ask the question a different way: “The intercom? how do you use it?” Nothing.

Alright. This is just silly.

“How would one use the intercom if one were so inclined?”

Nothing. I wait three seconds… “So, the intercom, um, how’s it work. The intercom here?” I stand up slightly and point to my phone.

She blinks from the focus of her concentration and slowly looks back; with an eerily-responsive tone, she says “you just press IC, then the number of the person you want to reach.”

Whoa. “Thanks." Slightly concerned, "It is Carol right?”

“Yep.” She points to her name plaque and then quickly returns to that spot on her desk.

For sanity’s sake, I’m just going to forget that happened.

I have the uncanny ability to stay up until all hours of the night, every single night of the week, even though when I wake up in the morning, the first thing I think is, “tonight, I’m going home, and I’m going to make dinner, take a bath, and go to bed early.”

But, do I listen to myself? Nope.
I don't hear a Goddamned thing.

There is a woman who works down the hall from the desk where I'm sitting today. This woman, we will call her TMI, chronically insists on sharing with me her most intimate of bodily functions. Though, of course, it's my own fault for initially opening the flood gates for this kind of information (pun unavoidable).

A few months ago, TMI was lounging like a Moomoo doning JavatheHut at her desk, sporting a noticeable grimace that usually elicits the question, "What's the matter?" Being the gullible-gus that I just happen to be, I fall right into the 10-foot-in-diameter-briar-bear-pit-surrounded-by-yellow-warning-tape-which-reads-"CERTAIN DEATH OR DISMEMBERMENT, STAY OUT!"-covered-only-in-a-light-vale-of-shrubbery Trap. The situation unfolded as follows:

Temp: "Oh, what's the matter?"
TMI: "My stomach" grimace, "is hurtin' me somthin' aweful..."
Tempers: Shit. That was more than I wanted to know… defiantly. "Oh, that sucks." Shit.
TMI: Grimace, grimace, wince "yeah, I've been havin' stomach problems all week, I'm going to the bathroom every twenty minutes and it's just flowin' right through me…"
Temp: Shit. Literally. I knew it. Why?!?!? Do people feel the need to share that type of thing?!? "Oh," feigned pang of sympathy, "That's awful?"

I walk away, my imagination riddled with the image of her current bowel movements and tri-hourly trip to the woman's bathroom.

NEXT SCENE:

About a month ago: TMI is walking slowly past my desk, holding her stomach again. AH! HaHA! I know better. I concentrate and keep my eyes focused straight ahead, scanning the current story concerning Mary-Kate Olsen, intently staring at the small computer screen as if to feign near-blindness. Doesn't work; she walks up to my desk. I quickly click on my Microsoft Word Icon to hide the gossip-blog and turn, wearily, to face my challenge. "Hey," then I offer the obligatory, "Howya doin?"

"Uh, my stomach, it's the opposite of the last time, honey; it's all stopped up in there and I can barely walk…"

LALaLALALALAlalalalalalala* I can't hear you! * LALALAlalalalala. Shit (or lack thereof). I.n.a.p.p.r.o.p.r.i.a.t.e. I return to my investigation of the thinner Olsen, and stare blankly at the computer screen for a good ten minutes, unable to feel the right side of my face.

JUST A MINUTE AGO:

TMI: Pops her puffy face in the side of my office as I'm checking my e-mail... again: "Do you have a pillow around here?"
ME: "Um, yeah, I think there is one back there somewhere," I return to examining my e-mail for the 20th time waiting desperately for someone to e-mail me, so I can be distracted for my last 5 minutes in the office.
TMI: "Oh, good, I need it for sittin'" then she points to her left, oversized, draped-in-purple-velvet, butt-cheek: "Boil."

Seriously? A boil on your ass? It's 5:15. I'm going home.

Woah! HolyFuckingShit. I've actually been working this morning, and MORE than that, I've been getting behind, because there is TOO much work for me to do! It's an anomaly far superior to my everyday delectable distractions.

Thus far I've typed, and copied and opened letters, and printed out papers to staple together into certain groupings of which at this point I cannot discern, and AND I booked a flight reservation to San FranMuthaFuckinCisco! I feel like a Ferret on Speed... and Acid.

My sunburn has turned into all consuming itchyness. So, in an obvious (to me) attempt to quell my irritation, I've begun to slap and pat the upper portion of my chest in order to stop myself from iching it. "Lithe" passed me by and asked in a slightly concerned tone, if I was alright. "Yes," I said, still patting, "it's just that now my burn has turned to complete ichyness and I'm trying to stop it." Pat, pat, slap, "It's really really itchy." Still patting/slapping, "Itchy!" She nodds her head, and then slowly backs away. I continue to slap and pat my skin alone in my cubical. It's 5:15. I'm going home.

Part way through the afternoon, I realize that if I could find a way to fake a sunburn, I could conceivably use "I have a really bad sunburn, and cannot come into work," as an excuse for missing a day. Most likely a Monday. This is exciting.

I have come to this riveting conclusion because I've been repeatedly asked, "How are you doing?" today, in the normal polite rues of conversation. And, I have responded with a slight grimace, followed by a whiny, "I have a sunburn." I don't know why I feel like sharing that fact (other than it's engrossing my every thought, as even standing in one place shoots searing, burn-pain all over the back of my body), but it's worked out for the best. Intriguingly, each person I tell comes to a complete halt of their daily goings-on to tell me volumes about their own worst sunburn stories, or the range in fairness of their skin, their ethnic background, whether their mothers/fathers/cousin's niece's daughter had skin cancer, how old they were when they first got a sunburn, what power of sun block they use, what power of sun block I should use, where they were when they got sunburned last, their friends' sunburn stories, what type of lotion I should use, what color they are when they get a sunburn, what color I look right now... And god love them, if they've actually had skin cancer, I get to see the scars.

This has been going on for hours now, and my theory is that if enough people can empathize with your affliction, then it has to make a great excuse. Unfortunately, I didn't think of that this morning (moronic-Monday be what it may), and this is why I am here… I am also here for the money, but that's beside the point.

Is it freezing in this office, or is it just me? Though the office usually is cold enough to make an Eskimo feel hunky-fucking-dory, this time it might just be me. You see, this weekend I decided to bathe in reputable unintelligence and soak up the sun for 2 hours, thinking that, because it was early April, the sun could not possibly be at a strong enough intensity to administer the kind of burn that I'm now sporting. I am red, my clothes feel like sandpaper and I am shivering like a Chihuahua. Unhappy me.

AND, it's Monday. I'm freezing and it's Monday. I always have a special place in my heart for Monday's (usually it's next to the place where I keep the water chestnuts and Poison Ivy). The reason being, I am always a moron on Mondays for a variety of different excuses (didn't sleep all weekend, don't remember Sunday, jetlag, "Saturday night only happens once a week", "Com'on it's Friday, you don't have to work till Monday", "I'll just have one drink, then I'll be fine tomorrow"). M.O.R.O.N. Today, I am a moron because I woke up this morning after sleeping a good 12 to 14 hours last night, probably due to the sun-poisoning that I bestowed upon myself yesterday. Everything is foggy, and I haven't had a coherent thought yet. This makes it very difficult to act in an easy-going, intelligent manner. Even though, luckily, the partner I'm working for today still hasn't shown up, a few secretaries have tried to talk to me. This is uncomfortable for everyone involved.

SITUATION: I am approached by "Lithe," an insecure secretary who wants to introduce herself to me and make small-talk. I sit there, smile, and nod like a moron, unable to seamlessly carry the conversation from "Nice to meet you," to "(Anything else you can think of saying)." This makes for understandably awkward comedy. She stares at me, waiting for… something… then delivers an uncomfortable sentence like, "well, nice to see you at this desk," or "alright, um, if you need anything you know where to find me", or I say "yeah, I'm sure she'll be back tomorrow." She then resigns her attempt at friendly conversation and retreats back to the depths of her cubical from which she came.

It's like playing Connect-Four with a child who has ADD and Autism: you're nervous, but you convince yourself it's Childs play and "what's the worst that can happen, right?" Then in a fit of panic, and loud shrieking noises, the board gets broken in two, and you get a red-chip in your eye.

The woman's desk that I'm sitting at today has a little green jade-looking-maybe-plastic-but-I-won't-touch-it elephant on her desk and it's looking directly at me. It's been doing that all day. It's 5:15. I'm going home.

All muthafuckin-hell broke loose today. I arrived this morning not feeling at my most perky, but trying to fake it … to myself … because if I could only fool myself, then maybe I can fool everyone else. Upon my arrival (10:15 a.m.) I discovery that the power in the entire building is off. Power's out. All. Of. It.

You see, this presents a very precarious position for me, because being a temp, I know everyone, yet, no one really knows me. But, they feel the need to make daunting small talk with me about… whatever. I, being in the legion of Secretaries, am supposed to make small talk with the secretaries. This, I cannot stand. However, the partners won't engage me in conversation, because they think I am a secretary and therefore have the IQ of a subservient chinchilla (they would never outright admit this, but fuckme if it's not true).

Scene: Partners and Secretaries, standing idly in the courtyard, smoking cigarettes and making their trips to the StarBucks to kill time until the building is resuscitated: partners talking to stuffy-haughty partners, secretaries talking to shabby-slouchy secretaries. And me, standing there like a sardonic, trench-coat donning, sunglass wearing, cigarette smoking, 5 year old who just got transferred into a different Kindergarten, and doesn't know where to go to hide in order to avoid the rest of the screaming children.

The vultures appear: Les-bionic Woman and Tweedy Bird are looking at me. Shit. In my dazed state of lack of sleep and some sort of hangover (that of which I cannot name), I look lost and ignored. They feel sorry for me. Shit. I'm not sorry, I'm Happy. Shit. Bionic motions for me to come over and chat. She thinks I need some company. Shit! I have no way around this… what do I do?!? Wave her off? That would be rude, and she is a very temperamental lesbian, who you, essentially want on your side! Shit Shit Shit!

I approach the two and we engage in some sort of small talk, which quickly turns to gossip: "So, I heard you were sitting next to "V-woman" yesterday, yeah, she is great secretary, she really knows her –" … this continues for a measure of unbearable time, and I begin tuning out in an effort to save the one brain cell I didn't kill last night "…never help her again, I swear to god, she is so fat and she never does N-E-thing…" Oh, god. What do I Do? Cell phone. Text your friend, he'll call you. Text Him. PLEASE CALL ME. DESPERATE. NEED SOMEONE TO CALL. "…Yeah, she just never does anything, and look at her over there chatting it up with the partners, who does she… " Comon'Dude, please please please. I look longingly at my cell phone, while nodding a feign of interest. Please call. Please. Nothing. I look at Lesbian's partner in crime, TweedyBird, the entire time motionless except for her head bobbing up and down in agreeance. Look to phone: nothing. Tweedy: bob. Text him again. PLEASE YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND SEVERITY. GET ME OUT OF HERE! CALL ME! Nothing. Absolutelyfuckingnothing. Ten minutes has gone by, and I start to get weak, as I defiantly feel the last braincell frantically waving a white flag. I panic, then a moment of deafening clarity: bathroom? Yes, Bathroom! I have to go pee!!! Yes! "And she's just so catty, I –" I step in before BioGirl takes her next breath. "I'm sorry, do you know where the bathroom is out here?" She stops and examines me, searching for wry intentions, but then responds, "Oh, yeah, in the Garage, just ask one of the guys."

"Thanks a lot, I'll be right back," I say with a smile and briskly make my inelegant exit.

I go to the garage, no bathroom. I don't have to go anyway. I find a corner. I hide in the corner of the very dark, windy and cold garage, while frantically calling every friend I know trying to not be indicted again into that pit of despair. Just as I was about to consider what an overdose on Aleve would take, an elevator luckily begins to work again. I immediatly take it up and away from the courtyard of socially-hierarchical chaos to hide in one of the unlit conference rooms before someone finds out where I am - Honestly though, if I didn't say anything, that could probably take days.

Damn it.
A perfectly good excuse was wasted this morning, and now it has to bow its sad little pathetic head and move to the back of the "excuse line," where it will ask fellow excuses for change in order to buy a coffee, and wait its turn until it can be used again. SO. Alright, I admit, I DID stay up until an unreasonable hour this morning doing… whatever, and I DID call in at 8:45am in order see if I could finagle a little more sleeping time: "Hi. Sweet Human Recourses Woman ("SHRW")? Yes, I have the worst allergies (or fill in blank) and my eyes are watering all over the place, I was just going to come in a little bit late so I can compose myself."

Mind you of course, I do not have allergies. But very often I come down with all sorts of ailments, which cause me to be over an hour or two late; when in reality, I don't think I've been sick in over a year. These wonder-causations of tardiness include, but are not limited to: migraine, the flu (that is going around office), the cold (that is going around office) – in fact when cold season comes up, I become very excited because I can use it to my discretion – bladder infection (my favorite), food poisoning (usually from sushi restaurant by my house), allergies (during the spring and fall), car trouble (very rarely, because it sounds like an excuse), PID (Pelvic Inflammatory Disease – only in extreme emergencies), pink eye (that one's awesome), had to drive friend to airport (usually during the holidays), alarm didn't go off (sparingly, there's only so many times, before logically, you would simply buy a new alarm), … but I digress:

SHRW: "Oh, whew, sure that’s fine, I was worried, because we have a lot for you today."
Me: "Um… is 11:00 okay?"
SHRW "Oooooo *pitch unable to replicate* Um… - "
Me: "Oh… lots of work, huh? Okay, I guess I can get there by ten."
SHRW: "Oh, thanks so much, you're a lifesavor!"
Damn it.

I was just accosted by a semi-drunk woman rambling about filing orders and "Larry." I don't know who she is or where she came from, but she told me that she was recently on vacation, where she wanted to stay, and there is someone I need to call right away in order to find out exactly where to put something that seems semi-important. Then she walked away waving at some imaginary gnat. It's 5:15. I'm going home.

Just for your reference to all you bosses and/or administrative heads out there: "You are amazing, I don't care what they say!" is not a compliment in my eyes. Though I am pretty "inside my head" most of the time... If "they" obviously are saying negative things about me, why have "you" waited until now to let me know, and who are "they" anyway? I would like to speak with "them," and find out exactly what "they" think I am doing wrong; and the fact that "YOU" are disregarding "them" completely like that, I feel is inappropriate. What gives "you" the right to descend from the ranks and go against "them" in the first place?

Apparently, V-woman next to me has some pretty strong, yet muddled opinions about the Michael Jackson case herself. And, she constantly refers to what she's heard, yet won't read the voluminous documentation I have been nurotically examining for the last three hours, and am, at this point vigorously (and vehemently) suggesting.

V: "See, what I herd was, that the mother has been extortin' all these people and she's just in for money."
Thereby I respond thusly: "Well, actually there is this article in Vanity Fair and these news reports on CNN which state that the mother wasn't involved in the extortion but it was actually the father. The mother had nothing to do wit—"
Vaginachron: "Oh, I don't believe any of that, I heard bad stuff about this family. That's all I'm saying."

I have an overwhelming urge to throw my apple at her head, so I return to my Google search of "Michael Jackson Jordie Chandler pics boys."

Hopefully, that doesn't come up with anything deemed unsuitable to the network administrator.

Honestly. Honestly, I get paid an inordinate amount of money to do almost absolutely nothing. and ... AND I have a degree. But at this point I forget what my degree is in because I've spent the last 3 hours staring at the computer screen, catching up on articles from Vanity Fair and doing my OWN investigation into whether I think Michael Jackson touched little boys in their bathingsuit places. My conclusion, after three hours of mouth agape, non-moving, non-blinking constipated concentration (besides the fact that my left leg is asleep and my back is arranged in one of the most painful curvatures that I have ever experienced): He did it: he totally fondled the way of the priest. I'm sure of it. I'm also sure that the woman next to me smells like vagina, and hasn't done an iota of work since she got here either. Except for she copied a piece of paper, and then sat down with it next to me looking very smug with herself. I examined the paper, then her, then the piece of paper again, as she waited for some sort of acknowledgement of her feat.
"Cool," I said. "I just got an e-mail from mailerdeamon."
She has no idea what I'm talking about.

Bertha looked exactly like I thought she would.

Today, her name is Bertha. Bertha. Obviously, she must be old. At least old enough to where the day she was born her parents thought, "Bertha, what a beautiful name for a slightly overweight and squinty eyed baby; yes, yes that name is perfect: I think we'll go with Bertha." Because you know that there is absolutely no way in hell that there is a reasonable person out there today who would chose "Bertha" as a name for their child - unless, I concede, it was a family name, OR you were in the South... or the backwoods of Georgia. But those places don't count; unless you want to film them or put them on display in some sort of carni-photography exhibit, which mind you I think has always been a fantastic idea - but I hear that they don't take too kindly to those types of thinkin'.

Bertha just called. I don't know the name of the partner-ass that I'm supposed to be kissing yet, so I'm sure I fucked up his name when I answered the phone. "Mr. BuOngin-y's office." I think this caused Bertha to become upset, and I can only assume that she rolled her eyes, or busted a seem in her polyurethane pants or something of the sort, the fat around her midsection contracting and expanding under the stress of it all. She said in a slightly harried tone "Just tell him, I'll be there by 1pm." I don't know why she's so stressed out. I haven't done anything all morning... AND I showed up 45 minutes late.
I think someone noticed, but I don't know who.