CRACKED OUT LIFE PLANS!

Almost getting fired last week turned my world upside down, but not in the way that you think it would. Instead of being like, "BAHHH, I almost got fired! Jobs are hard to come by! Money buys you pants and sandwiches! I should straighten up and fly right!" I just wish I had actually gotten fired. Because while anxiously waiting for The Talk last week, I really came to peace with the idea of not working here anymore and got excited at the thought of pursuing other life avenues. But as we all now know, that Talk never came and here I am, still stuck in this ghost ridden dump show. Perhaps last week was the wake up call I needed that I've become too complacent in this job and it's time for me to make moves. After all, this was origionally just supposed to be a "for now" job and I've already been here for over a year. Yep. It's time to bust a move.

But here's my question: if I quit my job...where exactly would I get this "money" that everyone speaks so highly of? Jäger isn't exactly cumming in their pants at the thought of sponsoring us, literary agents are like bicycles: I don't have one, and Lord knows you're just as broke as I am, so I'm not looking at you. This means that when push comes to shove, I actually can't make moves. Which is a fact that causes me a significant amount of stress and frustration. And that stress and frustration, coupled with how sick I've been recently, has turned me into one giant cracked out freakshow.

HOWEVER! When god closes one door, he opens a window and I think I've found my window! In my haze of complete cracked out...ness yesterday while talking to Co-Blogger Chris, I got an idea: I'm going to make a graphic novel and make a babillion dollars off of it. BAHAHA! Take that quarter-life crisis!

CRACKED OUT GRAPHIC NOVEL BOOK IDEA:

I call it, The Adventures of Aspie's Clip and Weekend Hair. Aspie's Clip and Weekend Hair are two important characters in my life who you don't know about because up until now I've had a shred of dignity left. But you know what? Fuck it! I've got nothing left, so why not just let it all hang out, right? Let's start with Aspie's Clip. I have a Mac Powerbook that Alex got during his Junior year of college and I bought off him when I moved back from Brooklyn. It's a bit old and rickity, but it gets the job done. One day I was in bed with said laptop when I randomly found a paper clip. I started fiddling with the paper clip, as you do, and I realized that it is magnetically attracted to the latch on the front of my laptop. From then on, I kept the paper clip attached to the front latch so I have something to fiddle with while I'm working. I became oddly dependent on it. It became part of my creative process.

Flash forward to the weekend of Jäger Ball. Saturday morning Chris and I were snuggling in bed together when I pulled out my laptop to check my email. Chris, ever the curious little thing he is, reached over and grabbed the paper clip off my computer. Which is when I freaked the fuck out. I shot up, grabbed the paper clip back and shouted, "DON'T TOUCH THAT!!!!! DON'T TOUCH MY PAPER CLIP!!!!!!1 Now, the reason I did this is because I knew that if Chris got his grubby little talons on it, he'd probably unbend it or pocket it, or drop it or lose it or any number of things that result in me no longer being able to fiddle with it while working. (And I realize if that were to happen, I could easily just get another one, but bringing a paper clip home from work for the soul purpose of sticking it to my computer to fiddle with is a depth of odd that even I'm not willing to explore yet.) So, yes, I freaked out a little bit. "Wow...." he said as he handed the paper clip back to me with wide eyes. "Here's your paper clip back, Aspie." Embarrassed, I tried to explain why I was so attached to the paper clip in the first place, which of course only made the situation worse. From then on out, we began referring to it as my "Aspie's Clip". Throughout the weekend Chris would randomly be like, "WAIT! EVERYONE STOP! STOP EVERYTHING!...Where is Aspie's Clip??" and I'd point to him safely on my computer and be like, "He's right there! No worries!" (Also, I'd be lying if I said at one point during Jäger Ball, I didn't lean over to Chris and whisper, "God, I wish Aspie's Clip were here to see this.") (I'd also be lying if I said Chris didn't respond, "I know. He'd love this.") Aspie's Clip has taken on a life of it's own. In casual gchat conversations with Chris, he'll routinely be like, "Hey, how's Aspie Clip doing?" and I'll give him a full life update. He's a force to be reckon with. He's Aspie's Clip! How could you not love him?

Now, Weekend Hair. Ok. I'm not going to lie to you: I have an affinity for fake hair. I've had painfully fine hair my entire life and have always fantasized about what it would be like to have long, thick, luxurious locks. I've thought about getting extensions more times than you can imagine, but always Jew out in the end when I see the steep price tag. Thus, you can imagine how happy I was when I heard about the Ken Paves/Jessica Simpson line of clip in hair extensions called HairDo. One day in early 2008, I finally went into Ricky's in New York and got myself a 22-inch midnight brown HairDo clip-in hair piece. I was elated. It looked badass. I explained to Co-Blogger Chris (my then roommate) that I would only wear it on weekends because it would be too awkward to show up to work one day with mysteriously long and luxurious hair and my short little chemo hair the next. "It'll be my weekend hair!" I told him. And thus, we started referring to it exclusively as Weekend Hair.

I honestly think Weekend Hair was more popular with my friends than I was. While I'd get ready to go out for the night, Chris would pop his head into my room all, "IS WEEKEND HAIR COMING OUT TONIGHT?!" and if I said yes that meant it would be a good night. (It has been theorized that the Black Eyed Peas' I Gotta Feeling was origionally written about Weekend Hair.) When my friends from home came up to visit they'd all ask if weekend hair would be coming out with us and when I came home to visit them they'd remind me not to forget her. When I arrived at places, it was always, "WEEKEND HAIR'S HERE!.......And...Meg..." I think towards the end I was only invited places because Weekend Hair happened to be attached to my head.

One time I got cocky with it and wore Weekend Hair to work in an up-do. What a heinously embarrassing call that was. The evil whore-bags I worked with would be like, "Your hair looks...different today," and I'd have to be like, "HAHA...yeah. It's just a...it's a Ken Paves...it's...never mind I GOTTA GO I THINK I HEAR MY EMAIL!" Finally towards the end of the day an Editorial Assistant came in to give me something and was like, "What's different with your hair...?" and I completely lost it and yelled at her, "IT'S FAKE HAIR, OK?! YES, I AM WEARING FAKE HAIR. TO WORK. BECAUSE I AM RAGING WHITE TRASH. ARE YOU HAPPY?!" I don't think that really helped my dwindling office popularity...

Anyways, like all good things, Weekend Hair had to come to an end. The average lifespan of a HairDo peice is six months, and man did I stretch that out. One night Weekend Hair and I hooked up with a gentleman on a tarp under a beer pong table and when I woke up the next morning she was covered in Miller Lite knots, body fluids, broken dreams and god knows what else. Thus, I finally decided it might be time to retire her. (Sidenote: Jen Toppe, I know you've been mind-boggled by this before, but let me reiterate that you can hook up while wearing Weekend Hair and he won't know the difference. Because THAT'S how Ken Paves and Jessica Simpson roll. Although I will tell you that one time I was doin' it with a gentleman while wearing Weekend Hair in a low pony tail and in the heat of the moment he pulled on it and it 100% slid out. I was like, "Yyyyyyyeahhhhhh...just ignore that." Honestly, he didn't seem too fazed. Although anyone who's going to pull your hair that hard during sex probably deserves to have it be a clip-on.) (That was the most redneck sentence I've ever written and I'm not sure what to do about it...)

After I gave Weekend Hair her royal burial in a dumpster in Brooklyn (fitting burial or what?) I never bought another one again. It just seemed like it would be cheating or something. My mom did buy me a HairDo ponytail she saw on QVC in October ("Weekend Hair 2.0"), but it's not the same. Sometimes Chris and I have uncomfortably long gchat conversations about how much we miss Weekend Hair and wonder what she's doing right now. If she's staring at the same moon and thinking about us...? Yesterday, in my state of sheer cracked-out...ness, we began musing about who would win in a fight between Aspie's Clip and Weekend Hair. The thought of Aspie's Clip and Weekend Hair with little shivs in their hands, circling each other West Side Story style was almost too comical to imagine. Thus! I want to write a graphic novel about the Adventures of Aspie's Clip and Weekend Hair living together in my apartment and the shenanigans they get up to when I leave for work. I think it could make it big in an Arj and Poopy kind of way. And make a babillion dollars and never have to work again.

My only trepidation is that I can't illustrate. And I don't know how interested people are in the adventures of my paper clip and slutty clip-on hair. And that I'm currently having this conversation with Chris via ghchat:

me: so i have an entire post about aspie's clip and weekend hair written, but i don't know if i'm brave enough to post it.

Sent at 12:08 PM on Thursday

Christopher: this is dicey.

what exactly are you saying?

like just outline it for me

i'm concerned a reader might have you committed.

Sent at 12:10 PM on Thursday

me: my life is in the shitter -> what should i do with myself? -> oh i have a cracked out idea! -> write a graphic novel about the adventures of aspie's clip and weekend hair! -> who are they, you ask? -> this is aspie's clip -> this is weekend hair -> this is a bad idea. lol. FIN.

Christopher: this worries me.

God damnit. Back to the drawing boards...

I was Accidentally Racist #235234

Ok. So. Don't judge me. But...I was accidentally racist again (or again. Slash again. And again.) last night. BUT! Before we get to those highly embarrassing details, there's another local Jäger Ball I need to tell you about!:

Boston!


Kate and Jenna organized this one and you can hit them up on Twitter if you have any questions or email Kate at katemotter@gmail.com! Despite today's post, people of all races, creeds, religions and ethnicities are welcomed, I promise. ALSO, REGARDING JÄGER BALL DC: Just to clarify—drink specials end at 11, not the party. That goes way past 11. It's not a school night bitches; let's get crazy with it! Co-Blogger Chris and I plan on sleeping on a pile of melted ice in the alley of the bar. So there's that. Now, let's get to some good old-fashioned hardcore American racism, huh?!

Yesterday Boss #2 and I hosted a late lunch meeting to show off our new line of furniture (read: Boss #2 gave the presentation, I hung up coats and played Snood in the bathroom.) After our group left, it was my job to go in with a damp rag and clean the surface of everything because a.) we can't have any fingerprints on anything, ever and b.) I'm the office's bitch and that's the kind of stuff I do. As I stood there a-scrubbin', I marveled at the ungodly number of ridiculous fingerprints on everything. "God. There are fingerprints everywhere," I said to Boss #2, "Where did these people come from? A fried chicken conference?" Sigh.............

.............The group we had just hosted was the Congressional Black Caucus.

But! Before you call the ACLU on me or show up at my office with pitchforks and torches, here me out. The following was my thought process:

[Man. There are lots of fingerprints everywhere. This is irritating. You should complain about this.]
"God. There are fingerprints everywhere."

[Hmm...On second thought, you probably shouldn't have done that. Complaining about your job to your boss is never a good idea. You should crack a joke to lighten the mood to show how easy-going and charismatic you are. Because easy-going and charismatic people get raises all the time.]
Where did these people come from? A...

[OK, now think. What gives you greasy fingers? Oh, I know!]
fried chicken—

[Now we need a location. What would have a comically ridiculous amount of fried chicken?]
Conference?

That was my thought process. And there wasn't a hint of irony or malice in there, I promise! The second it flew out of my mouth, I realized exactly what it sounded like and made a noise that can best be described as "offfffffffffffmgahhhh!" So altogether it came out: "God. There are fingerprints everywhere. Where did these people come from? A fried chicken conferenceofffffffffffffmgahhhh!" I turned bright red and said, and I quote myself, "Oh my god, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean that in a racist way; I meant that in a chicken way!"

I meant that. In. A. "Chicken Way." What's worse is that I don't even think Boss #2 even heard me in the first place. She was like, "Hmm, what did you say? Just use some Windex if it won't come up" and walked away, leaving me to wallow in my own pile of self-mortification. I would have felt so much better had she heard, judged me, listened to my explanation and decided that I'm not racist in the end. It's like when you trip up the stairs and no one's there to see it, so you end up feeling even more stupid somehow. Right?

In conclusion: I am not racist. I enjoy African Americans and Asians and wish only good things for people of those persuasions. Kthnx.

I prefer the term 'Sexually Challenged'"

There’s a lot of things in this world that scare me: plane crashes, the Thriller music video, global warming, Kimberly’s scar on Melrose Place, falling down stairs, fupas, violent ghosts, episodes of SVU based on a true story, testicular twisting, Mickey Rourke’s new face, cancer, and eHarmony. Just to name a few (what can I say, I’ve got nerves of cardboard). But I’d be hard pressed to name one thing that scares me more than STIs.

Seriously. That shit is scary. Because you never know who has one until it’s too late and you go to the doctor and whoops, someone’s got a lifelong case of herpes. No thank you. We all know how those things go. The itching and the burning. The swelling and the oozing. Might as well just slap a “Caution Biohazard” belt on, because your genitals are unsightly and hazardous to e’eryone’s health. Kthnx keep your diseases in your pants, not mine.

What could be worse than an STI? Until now, you probably thought nothing. Welp, have you ever thought about sexually transmitted syndromes (STSs, if you will). I’m sure you haven’t, because I just made that name up. But if you’re familiar with 30 Rock (how would I live without Tina Fey/Liz Lemon), then you’ve heard of sexually transmitted Crazy Mouth (CraM, as I intend to call it) a sexually transmitted syndrome where sex leads you to spout crazy nonsense about one’s partner. But that’s not the only STS we’re all susceptible to. Just take a look at this pamphlet I recently made up found on the internet a respectable medical website.

STSs and their Treatment

Ynocall (Pronounced “why no call”).This can be contracted at any time, by anyone, although it is most prevalent after one night stands. Symptoms can present themselves as early as the inevitable walk of shame home and can persist up to several weeks after the incident. Symptoms include: constant presence of cell phone on or near person, vocalization about lack of phone calls, and irritability. Luckily, this affliction will fade in time, but for a quick remedy one can: nut up and be the first one to make a move or move on to another one-night stand. The latter option, however, has the added risk of perpetuating the cycle of illness.

Crazy Finger Syndrome. On the opposite end of the spectrum from Ynocall, one can contract CFS, or Crazy Finger Syndrome. This STS is the most common and usually occurs in relationship for the first few months, but can reappear much later in these same relationships. Symptoms include: strained/sprained finger joints from overtexting, anxiety over price of phone bills, and verbal diarrhea. A famous recent case of CFS involves two amorous twenty-somethings who sent a whopping 2,000 text messages back and forth to each other in a matter of 2 weeks, most of which consisted of an “I love you more” battle (which remains unresolved, as each claims to love the other more). Treatment can be self-administered, one need to simply put down the cell phone, turn off the Gchat and wait to talk in person. If this proves too difficult, seek professional help immediately.

Communicable Miscommunication (Comisco). Similar to ynocall, everyone is susceptible to this syndrome and its symptoms can become apparent at anytime. However, this syndrome does not limit itself to any one type of sexual encounter. Symptoms of this include: confusion regarding the meaning of once familiar words (“He just said ‘you too’ after I said ‘I love you’, what does that mean?”), disorientation especially regarding one’s relationship, anger, and erratic behavior. Can co-present with Ynocall. Direct treatment is the best solution for this: use your knowledge of letters to form words which convey your confusion and talk it out. If that does not work, a Mad Max style Thunderdome can be made available to you for a reasonable fee to “work out” your differences.

Psychosomatic Visual Impairment (PVI). This syndrome is most common in long-term relationships and is known more familiarly as being “dickmatized” or “pussy-whipped.” Subjects presenting this illness possess adequate visual and logical capacities, but lack the ability to combine these two processes. In layman’s terms, the sex is too good that you ignore obvious shortcomings in your partner. Symptoms include: loss of common sense and proper decision making skills, inability to remain vertical in the presence of partner, and loss of sense of self. Doctors will generally only give out prescriptions to the afflicted party’s close friends, which can be filled at the local bar/strip club/watering hole. Treatment must include alcohol and a heavy dose of solid facts. If all else fails, a Saving Silverman approach is preferred.

Amorous Fallacious. This is not to be confused with the non-STS “Amorous Phallus” which is an overwhelming love of the male reproductive organ. Amorous Fallacious is a serious STS that many virgins are prone to immediately following their first sexual encounter. Symptoms include: clouded field of vision regarding the person of interest, appearance of birds when person is near, affinity for sappy love songs, and loss of anything of interest to say to others. After many years of extensive research, scientists have concluded that the rushing of blood in the body can be responsible for many false perceptions, such as sensation of pins and needles or vertigo. Recently, love has been added to this list, as those afflicted with AF mistake the rushing of blood to their genitals during their first sexual encounter as overwhelming feelings of love. While these two events are not mutually exclusive, one must always remember being physically inside of someone is different than being emotionally inside of someone. However, doctors have yet to develop an acceptable litmus test for true love versus AF.

Munchausen’s Conjoinment. Unlike many other STSs, this syndrome is only present in persons in a steady relationship. Symptoms have been presented as follows: isolation from other friends, penchant for similar clothing options, abandonment of individual ideals and goals, and in extreme cases, multiple personalities. This STS also unlike other STSs, in that it is present in both parties, similar to an STI. Most often, both persons in a relationship will be reported to display Munchausen’s Conjoinment Syndrome. This is not so with other STSs discussed herein. Unfortunately, a proper treatment for this ailment has yet to be determined. Often, it is best to allow this syndrome run its natural course, as mortality rates for forced separation of Munchausen’s conjoined couples are similar to those seen in the separation of conjoined twins. However, this syndrome may have deleterious effects on one’s other relationships, if left untreated.

If one is capable of practicing safe sex and preventing the contraction of an STI, then one can very well be capable of avoiding an equally devastating STS as well. As G.I. Joe would say, knowing is half the battle. Be as aware of one’s symptoms as possible, and if you feel you may be displaying the early warning signs of any of the above, seek help as soon as possible. Be safe out there.

R.I.P. AIM, I knew ye well

I believe, that we, as a generation, and I’m talking specifically about my age group and cohorts, got ourselves born at just the right time for the internet. So way to go us for pushing our way out of our mom’s vah-jay-jays. Young enough to have grown up with it, not too old to be confused by any new additions to it. (What is this Twitter of which you speak?)

But this post isn’t about us, it’s about the loss of one of the internet’s treasures. Specifically that of our teenage years. I’m not talking about Oregon Trail because while I do consider that a cornerstone in my childhood, you can still play that here. You’re welcome in advance. When I ate brunch with Meg this past weekend (after she washed the cheese off her face), we were talking and somehow AIM came up. If you’re new, and don’t know what AIM stands for, maybe just walk away now, because I’m not defining it.

Anyway, we were shocked that neither of us had been on AIM in decades. For something that was such a staple in our formative years, it disappeared for our lives faster than the money in my bank account. The Buggles got it right when they said “Video killed the radio star” and, if I may borrow their idea, Gchat killed AIM. You know why that little yellow man was always running? Because behind him was Gchat’s red M with a chainsaw. You thought that M stood for mail, but you’d be wrong. It stands for murder. But you know what? I’m ok with that.

One thing that I love about Gchat is that it’s not only socially acceptable, but expected, that you will choose your given name as your screen name. On AIM, how many hours did you agonize to come up with the perfect screen name? I’m not going to tell you what I came up with, because it was probably the lamest screen name on the planet. Think of what your screen name was. Make it ten times lamer. That was mine. I had a severe problem (and probably a neurological condition) with numbers in a screen name, so I had to make sure my name was original enough to not have AOL suggest something like “soccerboy12” or “iluvkitties07”.

Then once you get your screen name, you now spend further hours customizing with a unique font/color combination. To me, AIM will always be synonymous with Comic Sans font. And the most garish colors you could possibly pick. Bright green background with bright blue font? Perfect. Neon yellow background and red font? Amazing. That’s how you tell the world that you just love the Goonies or the Backstreet Boys. Or Smurfs. You know, whatever you’re into. While simultaneously giving them a migraine.

How many people did you know tHaT tYpEd LiKe ThIs~*~? (I personally went through a long phase of ending every sentence with multiple periods.....Yes, it was as annoying as you think it was.) Because alternating upper and lowercase makes you stand out. Actually, just those few words were the most annoying words I’ve ever typed. I guess 13-yr-old girls have plenty of patience. Or just very strong left pinky fingers. This was especially prevalent in their AIM profiles. (~*~i LoVe AvRiL lAvIgNe!!~*~) AIM profiles were like the proto-Facebook. You had your basic info, your interests, and probably a quote. And every guy’s interest was some sort of sport. And every girl’s interest involved “hanging with my girlies”. Unless you were going through your Goth phase, then your unisex interest was worshiping the Devil.

What AIM can do that Gchat and most other instant messaging forums can’t do is allow you to meet strangers in a chat room, which really is a shame. Because there’s no better way to make friends than by answering life’s eternal question: a/s/l? I tried asking this question in a group chat on the G and got crickets in response. Because you can only group chat with people you know. All the mystery is gone. You can’t pretend to be a 24/m/FL (weird…24 seemed so old in AIM’s heyday) which was all the fun of AIM chat rooms. You could be anyone. Or meet anyone. Which is probably why “To Catch a Predator” exists.

But meeting strangers online was all the fun of the internet back in the day…until you met them in the mall by Auntie Ann’s Pretzels and they turned out to be a total creepshow. That’s why most relationships online should have stayed online. Anyone out there have an internet bfry/gfry? I remember my older sister had a heavy online relationship with some kid from Burkittsville, MD, but it never came to anything except him sending some pictures of himself playing soccer to her and then telling her the Blair Witch Project was real.

I was curious as to whether anyone uses AIM anymore. So I turned to the best people I could ask: my little brother and little sister. They know what AIM is, but they say they haven’t used it. Being 14 and 16, respectively, and therefore at the prime age to be pretending to be 23 and from KS, but alas no such luck. With Gchat and Facebook chat and everything else, AIM appears to be going the way of the dodo. Bummer, they don’t know the simple joys of the interweb that we grew up with. Like accidentally sending a cybersex IM to your friend instead of some rando you met in the Teens chat room. True story: Talking to my friend Amanda back in the day, she out of the blue IMs me with “Now you fuck me in the butt while she licks your balls”. Nothing livens up an AIM convo like an accidental three-way. It’s the little things.

Overall, I don’t know that I’m mourning the loss of AIM. I get along just fine with Gchat. And since it’s tethered to my email, I’m only Gchatting while at work. Good thing too, because otherwise, I would be all up in AIM chatrooms pretending to be a 35 year old investment banker from Missouri.

Meghan says: VIVA GCHAT BITCHEZZZ!!!1

In high school (and in college too, let’s not lie) I was obsessed with AIM. I spent more time finding the perfect quote about my group of friends to put in my profile than I did actually spending time with them. I would break out into hives and have a panic attack if I realized I’d left the house without putting up an away message. I stalked the profiles and away messages of friends of friends of friends who I had never met, but felt a close bond with from keeping AIM tabs on them. There was also a disgusting amount of calculated effort to find a buddy icon that perfectly reflected my personality (an icon of Homer Simpson from the Tree House of Horror episode where his head turns into a donut and he can’t stop eating it, btw.)

When I started work after graduation, I became less enchanted with the world of AIM, a day I thought I’d never see. AIM is too all over the place to use at work, so I started to use it less and less until I finally stopped all together. Thus, the stalker and ADD kid inside of me were pretty psyched when I discovered gchat.

On a functional level, gchat is simply more discreet than AIM and isn’t quite as all over the place. And like most google applications, it works in tandem with your email/schedule/google maps etc. If google made birth control, I’d never use a condom again.

A few days ago, I was talking to my mom about how Talia had just gotten busted using gchat at her new job. My mom started ranting about how irresponsible it is to use gchat at work and how it has no place in the office. I then shot back a fiery and persuasive rebuttal, which I will share with you now. I call this rebuttal “Gchat: Where the Productivity’s at!”

I strongly believe that all companies and corporations should allow their employees to use gchat throughout the workday, because I argue that using gchat actually increases office productivity.

I compare using gchat at work to taking a power nap. When you feel exhausted and need energy, many people opt to take a “power nap.” You nap briefly (say, 30 minutes) and when you wake up, you have a sudden influx of energy—minimum sleep resulting in maximum energy.

Gchatting works in essentially the same way. For example, if I have actual work to do, I’ll work for a solid hour and then take a nice little five-minute gchat break to clear my head. Then, back to work I go. It’s sort of like taking a cigarette break, but a lot less deadly and a lot more hilarious. Hmm…cigarettes or gchat? I don’t think I want to live in a world where companies encourage and tolerate multiple cigarette breaks throughout the day, but don’t allow gchatting.

In fact, I think not gchatting is dangerous. Without a doubt, the most stressful part of the day in my last job was trying to hide the fact that I was using gchat. On a normal workday, I had three windows open: 1.) gchat 2.) a layout I was working on and 3.) an inappropriate website (inappropriate like a blog, not inappropriate like asspounders.com.) Because I used a mac, I had the advantage of using hot corners, which shuffle your windows around quickly when you move your mouse into said hot corner. I used to sit in my cubicle like a twitchy drug addict going through withdrawal, paranoid that someone was lurking up behind me ready to bust me for being on gchat. I think I have permanent neck damage from snapping my neck back to see if someone was standing behind me.

I actually almost got fired once for being on gchat at work. It was the day before Thanksgiving and I was stuck in my cubicle with nothing to do but wait for a new photo to add to my layout, bored as fuck and slightly homesick. The editor of the magazine (who NEVER came to my cubicle, I was always summoned to go to her lair) rounded the corner and popped into my cubicle unexpectedly. I was like a deer in headlights. The color drained out of my face and it felt like my heart dropped into my ass. Editor found me in a state of disarray: slumped down in my office chair with one leg propped up on the table (wearing a skirt…I have no regrets,) with a pen dangling out of my mouth, gchatting the day away. Editor and I had this moment where we were both just stared at each other in disbelief. When I realized that sitting there looking up at her with an expression on my face that said “DANG!” wasn’t going to help the situation, I quickly hot cornered my windows to hide gchat, but accidentally chose the page where I was wikipedia-ing Cameo of “Word Up!” fame instead of my layout page. I ended up getting-a-good-talkin’-to from her, the Associate Art Director and my Art Director. Editor’s speech involved lots of swears and brought me to tears whereas my department superiors told me to be more careful next time and have a nice holiday.

Why must we sit in our cubicles in fear that our cunty bosses might see that we’re on gchat?! It’s like an office crush—so simple, but so necessary to get through the day! The summer after my sophomore year in college, I got a job as an office temp. I hadn’t had an office job before, so for the first few weeks I still had a work ethic and respected the “no internet” policy (I KNOW, LOLZ!) The result wasn’t getting more work done; I just found more creative ways to entertain myself. I calculated that 66.5 Marylands fit into the state of Texas, improved my sketching abilities, widdled a gun out of a paper weight using a letter-opener, fake shot myself in the head with it and avoided getting sexually harassed by a 50 year-old accountant who incessantly asked me if I wanted to go to his golf course and “knock a few balls around.”

So we have a lot of slack-assery, simulated suicide and a scorching case of sexual harassment, but thank God I wasn’t gchatting...