The printer at work is a total asshole. You tell it to do something and it’s all, ‘no, I think I’ll be possessed by the devil and do whatever the hell I want with this mind of my own I’ve developed.’ So I can often be heard wailing, “Why, WHY, do you do this to me you whorey motherfucker?! I HATE YOU!” Such is the same with many electronic devices in my life – my piece of crap cell phone, my Shitty McShitty home pc (I covet a Macbook), the demonic blender and vacuum – you know, all of those tricky little devices that require electricity and the slightest bit of coordination to operate. Yeah.
Anyway, I thought maybe it was just me. Perhaps I just had fatty sausage fingers and hit the wrong button repeatedly, but then I remembered that I wasn’t a senior citizen learning how to use this new fangled device called a computer and put it out of my mind. Then one day some of the guys were using my whore face printer for a certain project and spent the entire time blurting obscenities because it does the exact opposite of what it’s supposed to every time.
“SHIT!” “What the FUCK?!” “Goddamn printer!” Then I think one guy hoisted his leg to kick the shit out of it, but the situation was diffused before flying plastic shards could be lodged in anybody’s eye or ink could be splattered on favorite ties.
I’m like, “See? SEE? I fucking told you! I’m not just the “dumb girl” that works here.” Then I immediately posted a status update on Facebook that went something like this:
“Lara is laughing at all the cussing at the printer. I knew it wasn’t just me.”
A few hours later, this guy I knew from college that I haven’t spoken to even on Facebook in several years responds to my status update with something along the lines of:
“Wow, that is the most “The Office” status update I’ve ever read. I bet you miss sitting alone in a shitty newsroom.”
At first I thought, ‘Wow you tactless dickwad. Nice of you to come out of the woodwork just to attempt to insult me.’ Sure I miss certain things about being a reporter – sleeping in, choosing my own schedule, chatting with the people who weren’t complete shitbags – but there are so many more things that I don’t miss – the shitty newsroom infested with creatures, the long and late hours, the dead horse beating meetings that took over my life, deadline stress, forced creativity, the worst salary ever known to human kind (I’m fairly certain there are a handful of bums that sit in front of snooty restaurants on the Plaza and beg for nickels by waving a Styrofoam cup that make more money than I did) and the batshitass crazy people that I had to work with – certain co-workers and sources. If you ever stepped outside of the ailing world of newspapers, maybe you’d see the brighter side of NOT working in it. My life is so different (READ: Better) now that I’m in a nearly, non-media environment.
Then this happened.
I’ve been thinking about joining Twitter lately. I mean, my neurotic ass has been twittering in my own head for years. Even the non-neurotics do it, so now that there’s an outlet to share every little thing that pops into my head, I’ve been thinking about what I might write if I were to start an account. I believe most of my little entries would be from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. – the time of day when I’m most likely sitting in front of a computer. And, so, here’s a little sampling of what I came up with:
“Why won’t you answer your goddamn extension?! Can’t you see the little red light flashing?!”
“I’m starving. I wonder if somebody’s wife made cupcakes and left them in the break room for me to steal.”
“I hate fax machines. Why are they even still in existence?”
“Fucking copier jammed AGAIN and PISSED because shit’s all wrinkled now. Must replace pages now. Just yelled ‘fuck’ really loud. One of my bosses is laughing at me.”
“Somebody is a dirty whoring scissor stealer. Must find my good scissors along with culprit.”
“Culprit found! One of my bosses. What the hell? Stole scissors back in extremely stealth-like manner.”
“Found my actual pair of scissors in conference room where I left them last week. Feel retarded. Must return scissors in stealth-like manner.”
Seriously? Who the hell have I become? Fucking Milton from “Office Space?” Or who’s the craziest bitch on “The Office?” Meredith? Angela? Yeah, I’ve become one of them. This could be the most distressing realization of my life.
But, I’ve always been one of those people who look on the bright side. They’ve recently updated my status at work and are now allowing me to operate power tools to put together frames for licenses. Yes, hard labor is also in the job description.
“Am now crazy office bitch with mad marketing skillz that wields a power drill. Pretty much badass. Hang on to your testicles.”
Mmmm, hmmm, that’s more like it.
Update: The guys have now started calling me Wednesday (see photo above for reference). I believe this is an attempted insult. I will immediately dye hair blond, find mother’s pearls and dig out my old pom poms...just as soon as I give a shit.