The cool kids at work, a guy and girl, are six feet tall and wander in each morning like a couple of gunslingers who don’t care if the sheriff is in or not. They only shoot finger guns, but it’s all the same to me. They’re high on espresso and ambition, while I’m akin to Phil Connors in Groundhog Day.
“I’ve killed myself so many times, I don’t even exist anymore”.
I don’t know how I managed it, but I’m in. They’ve decided. It doesn’t seem to matter what I do, I’m the new Bieber of the office world. It’s fun being part of the posse, but I find myself waiting for the mutiny which seems inevitable. In my experience, offices are somewhat psychotic and allies can slowly turn on you (much like the fireplace in Indiana Jones, where suddenly you find yourself staring at a bunch of Nazis).
Meanwhile, the dude next to me (cult boy) (a superhero who leaps over logic in a single bound) is burning my toast to meteoric charcoal. Yesterday he told me that a rainbow is a pact from God not to flood the earth again. My response, “and here I was, thinking it was a bridge to Leprechaun Land” turned out a failed fob, as he then pulled out a bible and showed me a passage that ‘proved’ the Rainbow Pact (also known as the Skittles Treaty).
I probably should’ve replied, “cram it up your cram hole, cult boy” but instead (like a mother enthusing over a crudely-drawn stick figure) I said, “mmmm, that’s nice dear”.
I’m aware this makes me sound like an acidic villain (there’s some truth to that), but my beef aint with religion. It’s true that I’m a non-believer but I still have respect (yo). The truth is, Thunderbird Boy is bending my mind into a pretzel because we’ll be mid-convo and I’ll suddenly find myself in surreal landscape – like I’ve stepped off the porch in Beetlejuice. He seems to regurgitate systems and beliefs to the point where I feel like I’m talking to Hymey from Get Smart. That, and he’s loud-talking me into insanity.
In other news, yesterday some co-workers sat opposite, droning on about some crap and I hear the words, “slice and dice”. Without thinking, in a soft serial-killer voice I said, “slice and dice” (as if I was enjoying some fava beans and a nice chianti). In my defense, everything is a movie and I didn’t think they’d hear me. But they stopped dead and stared agog.
I was like, “my bad … didn’t mean to Hannibal heckle”.