Day two of the BEDA challenge. Go!
Last night, I watched Maureen Johnson on Blogtv and it was a blast. I say it *was* a blast, because right before she started to read the first chapter of Scarlett Fever my browser crashed and I was forced out into the dark, abysmal wasteland known as the Waiting Room.
The Waiting Room, land of a thousand sexist and racist jokes. A whirling landscape of constant nuck-futtery. Whole regions of my brain have committed suicide from having to read the chat there, I am now stupider for having read it. Look, I'm already using words like stupider.
Truthfully, I had a good time, but I seriously would love it if people just didn't feel the need to stay in the waiting room and harass people for no reason. I've never seen the draw of griefing folks and just wonder how pathetic your life has to be to sit around spamming, cursing at, and generally harassing people "just cause."
Work, is work. I sometimes imagine that people can actually see those cartoon clouds over my head as I shuffle, zombie-like, through the doors in the morning, head slunk low, brows a furrowed mass of desperation & exhaustion, breath escaping through clenched teeth in heavy sighs. I truly inspire joy-joy feelings in all who witness my passing.
That said, you have any idea how hard it is to stay at work an average of 2 hours everyday when you've already decided you are going to get a new job? You get to work at 4:45 am, by the time 1:30 rolls around you end up just staring at the clock, imagining it gloating and mocking you between calls.
"Still here, huh?"
"Your scheduled time ended over an hour ago, right?"
"You're still talking..."
"You could be home, curled up in your pajamas, watching Hank Green dance around in a tutu and singing 'Never Gonna Give You Up' right now."
"You're just a voice inside my head. Clocks don't talk."
"And yet, here I am, displaying the seconds as they creep by, watching the tiny, digital display burn it's way into your eyes until you begin weeping. What does that say about your mental well-being?"
Seriously, though, I hate my job.
You know, looking back over what I've written, I'm fairly certain I could be committed if people read this stuff without getting my sense of humor. Sarcasm and dry wit hardly come across correctly in textual form. I'm fairly certain my blog looks like the mad ramblings of a drugged-up, crazy person. I imagine your idea of me, fair reader, is one in which I am repeatedly smashing my nose into a keyboard, the straight-jacket making it hard for me to type correctly, spitting my "naughty brain things" into the void of the net, asking the internet gods to make the voices cease. You know, the voices that tell me to do crazy things, like knit, start a Colour Me Badd cover band, or take up accounting.
There might be something to your theories...