Waiting to Collide

Hey, guys.

I realize that we don’t talk much, or ever, really.  So I thought that maybe we should clear the air.

We don’t like each other.  There’s no mistaking it.  It stretches as far back as middle and high school.  You never liked me; I never liked you.  The typical dynamic is the self-loathing nerd versus the socially powerful regs.  Most nerds have problems embracing themselves and some even think that your judgment is righteous.

I am not one of those nerds.

I have little regard for your opinions, and ignore you for the most part.  You’re cruel to my kin, and cruel to each other.  Gossiping, MySpacing at work, being unprofessional in office meetings.  A few of you are immature and uncouth.  A few of you are simply immature.

I keep my opinions in the home realm.  I criticize you to my friends, and here.  When writing, I use pseudonyms to protect your identities in this semi-public blog.  I do not have outbursts in meetings concerning why I dislike you.  “Dislike” being the appropriate word, as no criticism of my work ethic or standard was given, simply your views on my lack of interest in you or your weekend hobbies.  I dislike you.

And all of this, I am OK with.  I’m comfortable disliking, and being disliked by you.  I am unconcerned that you likely make fun of me when I am not in the office.  I don’t mind that you avoid me in elevators.  We work together, and professionalism dictates that we tolerate one another.  You will never be surrounded with people like yourselves.  Society is not homogeneous.  So, I ask you, humbly, to accept those who you cannot change.  Treat those of my kin who are not so unphased by your behavior in a more respectful and inclusive manner.

And maybe not listen to South Park through the speakers on your desk and put things down your pants when I am in the room.  I genuinely wish you all the best in life.

Ash

Its Monday, again.  While I happen to rather enjoy my work, I am not impervious to the wave of sloth and apathy associated with Monday mornings.  I intentionally keep my Monday workload light in anticipation of this phenomenon.  I drink a mildly impressive amount of coffee before I even make it over to the facilities.  And still, I remain a grumpass for most of the day.

At this point you should be asking yourself, “Why did she lead this entry about Mondays with a picture of a pith helmet?”

GOOD QUESTION, o observant one!

The truth of the matter is, I sat down to write something possibly insightful, possibly humorous, and most likely pointless, but the Dude sitting behind me began to chuckle aloud in his regular caveman-like grunts, thus wiping my mind clean of creativity and filling it with white-hot rage.  Exaggeration?  No.

It has taken a few months for me to go from “wow, you’re an asshole” to “wow, I hope you get ulcerative testicular cancer.”  During my interview he sat slouched in his chair, playing with his pen, and when his boss asked him if he had any questions for me he replied with, “I really don’t care.”  After a few months of hearing all about which chicks he finds hot, how annoying his girlfriend is, his insightful movie critiques, and Southpark episodes played through the speakers on his computer, I’m about ready to make with the stabby.  Its times like these that I suspect there was something to eugenics, or that I wish I had a time machine and some condoms for his father.

Predictably against human nature, I will attempt to understand that which I find unnatural and frightening.  I will don my pith helm, grab my binoculars, and study the behavior of Regs in their natural habitat (i.e. everywhere I find them, swarming like breeding locusts).

“Hi, Mommy! . . . I didn’t call because I knew you took today off and didn’t want to wake you up . . . Yep, yep . . . Oh, can you get me some Venus Breeze razors when you go out . . . Yeah, the blades . . . Purple . . . For work tomorrow I want to bring your strawberry shortcake –” -Princess

EARBUDS GO IN. Thank fucking Jesus for noise isolating. Thank you, thank you, Jesus. Dear, sweet Jesus Christ.

This horrible parental dependence has tainted my soul. I need to build a little birdhouse to counteract the ulcerative wound formed from bitter, acidic tears.

This is the first in a series of posts studying the behavior of my office Regs. Enjoy!

After matriculating to the “real world” I have isolated myself fairly well from the Regs (regular people). I have been working in the veterinary field since 2002ish, and have been surrounded with eccentric/nerdy/interesting people. While there have always been a few average individuals in the mix, I have not been alone in my personality quirks.

Until now.

My co-workers/officemates are almost entirely Regs, with a couple that stick out as stereotypical Dude and Princess.

Dudes enjoy Pearl Jam, Linkin’ Park, sports, saying “dude,” the movie Rudy and playing first-person shooters.

Princesses get their nails done, really love flowers, have small dogs and usually have an unnaturally protective father.

Princess’ daddy drives her to work when it rains. She brings a lunch packed by her mother. She is 26.

Dudey Dude likes to watch South Park through the speakers on his computer in our shared office. He likes to announce which chicks he finds hot. He also graces us with his thoughtful and accurate movie reviews, such as:

“Dude, I watched Into the Wild last night. It was good, like, REALLY GOOD. It’s about this kid who is, like, fed up, and he goes out into the wild and lives. It’s kinda depressing at the end, but good.”

Now, my opinion of Into the Wild differs GREATLY. I watched it a few weeks ago, and fast-forwarded through the excessively long (over 5 minutes at some points), dialogueless, Eddie-Vedder-infused, “Oh, NATURE is PRETTY!,” survival montages. For the last half hour I was begging the television aloud to please, please let this self-indulgent, spoiled, rich kid die of septicemia, or a bear mauling, or both. Eventually, he starves to death, but with sunny God Rays shining down on his face through the window of his Alaskan hippie bus. I’m still chipping bits of dried puke off of my walls. That being said, [Dr. McAweosme/Boyfriend] vouches for the book version of this true story, saying that John Krakauer does not idealize this foolhardy youth, who wanders out into the Alaskan wilderness with not so much as a pair of snow boots.

Then Princess chimes in on her last movie: No Country for Old Men. She didn’t like it. “It just ended. Tommy Lee Jones was, like, telling this story, and then it just ends. [Brandon/Dirk/Boyfriend] said he read that it had something to do with when he was talking to that old guy in the house, but I didn’t get it.”

*Bashes head on keyboard* I refrained from letting on that themes, central ideas, and other scarybigwords exist in film and literature.

There Will Be Blood is next on her Netflix queque.