Thursday, December 16, 2004

Entry-Level Brain Chemistry

The verdict on the office party is...it wasn't bad. I met some hip biochemistry kids. I was sure liked them when the conversation took a turn towards gay porn, as well as the commercial viability of opening a brothel (or "Home for Unwed Boys"). In a superhuman feat of strength, I did not consume a single alcohol-based carbohydrate and ate only South Beach approved hors d'oeurves, minus a couple of little bread chunks which were more vehicles for meat-tidbit transport than nutrition.

There was definitely a kids table at the party, and I was most definitely sitting at it. Everyone under the age of thirty gravitated to one table (shockingly, it was the one closest to the bar), and unfailingly began conversations with each other by asking, "So, what is it you really want to do?" However, when an editor would sidle up, creepy uncle style, to talk to all of us at once, some kind of shared, entry-level brain-chemistry instantly switched everyone into "Oh, yeah, we love it here!" mode. It was too funny to be revolting. You do what you have to do to keep your crappo job. This explains my heavy make-out sesh with the CEO in the bathroom.

No, just kidding. It was in the alley out back. And totally h-o-t, might I add.

Of course, no evening is complete without at least one thing seriously pissing me off. Last night, it was the editor who routinely waltzes over to my desk to make jokes which aren't actually jokes at all. Yesterday, for example, I was talking to my editor in my cube and he came over, plopped his catcher's mitt of a hand on my shoulder and said "God, you talk so loud. I can hear you in my office all the time. Ha, just kidding." Obviously, he just wanted me to shut the fuck up. I feel it's important to note that I am completely silent all day, except for the ten minutes I make weird small talk about the Peterson case with my editor in the morning (again, she is so interested she has crossed the line from "enthusiast" to "suspect"). Also, this guy is in the office two times a week at most and coughs incessantly when he is.

Last night the same guy came up to our table and immediately began haranguing me and Brian about how we eat lunch together. "So, are you two attached at the hip? Do you ever do anything seperate? You're always eating your lunch, all that, like, weird food you eat out of that Tupperware." Brian kind of laughed, but the editor really pissed me off. This is a guy who makes, literally, three times as much as I do a year, and he's gonna give me shit for bringing my lunch to work instead of spending eight dollars on a cup of soup around the corner?

"Well, that's what happens when you're BROKE. You. BRING. Lunch." Someday, I'll learn not to piss off everyone directly responsible for my upward corporate mobility. The editor took that as his cue to leave, and has yet to even make eye-contact with me today.

It's times like those I wish I had lasers in my eyeballs. I just read an article about eyeball jewelry which can safely be implanted under your cornea, so I think it's safe to assume they're working on eyeball-laser-gun technology even as I type this.

The only other terrible, terrible development during last night's soiree was learning that my secret work crush, Senor One-Shirt-A-Week-Is-Good-And-Plenty, has a girlfriend. Lasers, I tell you. Friggin' lasers.

After I had fed my last spendable paper buck to the parking machine this morning, I found a Sacajawea dollar in the coin return that someone had forgotten to pick up. This means I can buy the paper today, which means I'll have something to read on the way home, because like a jackass I left my book in my car. I'm about thirty pages into Fierce People by Dirk Wittenborn, but it's excellent so far. This paragraph is really, really boring. Let's all move on.

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