Further Turmoil at my Work
Sorry to bury your content, Nos, but you can do better. That's right, you need not read Nostradamus's post. It really isn't worth your while. Let's just say NM's subtle mode of slander hasn't changed one bit...
Never mind. I wanted to fill you idiots in on some of my dealings with your kindred in my office. For the sake of anonymity, I will not mention where I work, but I will say it is probably familiar to many of you, in that it is an office, in a building in New York, where getting more money is the primary objective, and human interaction is one of the more bothersome and annoying obstacles on the road to achieving that end.
Like other offices, my place of "work" is filled with go-nowhere automatons whose primary function is to serve as seat-warmers for their eventual, equally talentless replacements. It's kind of like a merry-go-round, only mercifully with far fewer screaming, dirty children. I've worked here for three years. I've advanced, though only because of the departure of those slightly above me and certainly through no concerted effort of my own.
But don't label me a shirker! I do my work with admirable attention to detail. I'm generally sympathetic to my colleagues on at least one level; like them, I yearn to acquire mountains of cash. So I do my work, and I get promoted. In a true meritocracy, I would be higher up the ladder by now. But the fact remains: I hate my colleagues so much I can barely tolerate them. But our goals are aligned, so things proceed. Honestly, if it weren't for the constant job turnover in this industry, I'm sure some vengeful superior would have had my head long ago.
Anyway, as I mentioned in my previous post, I had acquired a group of friends from among my co-workers during the past year. I don't know why I ever allowed this to happen. My "Fuck-off" phone "conversation" took place about two weeks ago. Since then, word has slowly spread around the office that something is "up" with me... A few of my co-workers have tried to make eye-contact at various points across carefully demarcated cubicle walls. I shun these advances.
Sadly, this was not a perfect break. Last week, Julie, one of the more insipid female members of that merry troop accosted me at my cubicle exit (a clear violation of office etiquette, in this curmudgeon's book) with the following enquiry:
"Hey Arlo. We don't know what's up with you. Has a pet died recently or something, because you've been acting really weird dude? Anyway, are you coming to Cherise's going away party or not? You haven't responded to the evite, and the party is Saturday, and she's kind of on egg-shells about whether or not you're coming... If you get my drift..."
Of course Cherise was the woman I had told to "Fuck off" so vociferously on the phone... Of course it now turns out she has a severely misguided crush on me, and of course has the totally insane belief that I care enough about her to actually make an appearance at her "going away party." I never knew how dangerous friends could be until now.
I was flustered, I'll admit it, by this aggressive, exit-blocking strategy on the part of Julie. Previously I'd never suspected her capable of the foresight involved in planning a "confrontation." In a moment of panic I even eyed my stack of recently sharpened #2 pencils longingly. No. There was no easy way out of this. If the break wasn't complete, I had to finish the job.
"Julie. I'm so sorry I didn't respond. Believe it or not, I plum forgot! Of course I'll be there. The usual place, right?" I punctuated these remarks with a smile so forced I feared my ears might pop.
"Yeah... The usual place. See you there, Arrrrrlo..." She ambled off, muttering something. She seemed less than convinced by my performance.
So now I'm off to this God-forsaken party at this absolutely hideous, disgusting Irish Bar in mid-town. What could be more disgusting than the prospect of "partying" with my co-workers? A bunch of grotesque Irish barmaids of course. I swear, those people are the absolute scum of the earth.
Anyway, the party is tomorrow night. I'll let you know how it goes. I'm going with NRA membership card on my fucking lapel. If that doesn't get my message across loud and clear, nothing will.