(083) I just want to go behind my own back and shit talk myself
Goin’ to a Hallow’s Eve shindig and in need of a last-minute costume? Try one of these! You can throw them together in minutes and stand out from the crowd.
Self Check-Out Stand: Make a sign that says “Self Check-Out”, hold it high and start making everyone’s life difficult saying things like “Unexpected Item in Bagging Area”, and “Have you scanned your club card?” regardless of what they say to you.
Subaru Outback: Cover yourself in a layer of dirt and at least
twelve very opinionated bumper stickers regarding vegetarianism and Lake Tahoe, as well as one proclaiming how “A mind is a terrible thing to waste”.
The “Kelvin” filter on Instagram: Wear so much orange that it’s almost offensive, and aggressively rub turmeric on all exposed areas of skin.
Flamenco Dancer Emoji: The dress should be easy enough to find. The hard part will be holding that same pose the entire night.
Joe Biden: Tell everyone how excited you are for the party, then don’t show up.
El Nino: Bring a spray bottle and spritz other guests in the
face, explaining how they “really need it this year”.
Spinning Wheel of Death: Just print this out and tape it to whatever you’re wearing and when people ask what you are, say “One sec, still loading”.
Howard’s mom from The Big Bang Theory: Get creative, no one knows what she looks like.
A slut: Don’t like any of these? Just be a generic slut this year. No bunny ears or feather dusters, just tastelessly minimal clothing with maximum cleavage and a vacant expression. You can even paint a concerning rash around your mouth for a more authentic look.
(925) I feel like I only have thumbs. like five thumbs on one hand. so ten thumbs
Sadly the title of this post is misleading–I’m not about to tell a story of a dude whipping out his ballsack at an inconvenient time. If you’re into that, send me a private message and I can give you some resources.
This morning I accidentally let some unfiltered feelings into the workplace, and realized how important it is to not let this happen again. Not only for the sake of my coworkers and continued employment, but selfishly–this place, mundane and uninspiring as it may be, is one of my most potent daily sedatives.
Each morning I walk in frazzled with wet hair and a violent moshpit of concerns elbowing my temples from within, but as soon as I step through the office door, all that chaos is dulled to a low hum. As I sip shitty free coffee and check my morning emails, my hair dries and my worries shrink away. I’m the first one to arrive each day, so this calm facade of focused composure is who my coworkers know as Helen.
And today, I almost revealed my true identity.
This week at work, we’re in what my boss referred to as “Crisis Control Mode”, which I thought I was prepared for since that is every second of my life. However, the relentless workload coincided with a heightened anxiety regarding my life’s direction (or lack thereof), an inconvenient resurfacing of high school-level friend drama, and recurring dreams about the dead family dog from my childhood coming back to life and promptly trying to kill me.
So we have this giant tub of mixed nuts from Costco in our office, and they’re salty and bomb as fuck. Therefore, the tub was almost empty this morning. It was early and only two of my coworkers and I had arrived. I’d forgotten breakfast, so I dumped the last few nuts into my hand while unsympathetically apologizing to the my coworkers for finishing the tub.
On my way across the office, my foot caught on the laptop charger that some fucking idiot decided to plug in across the room, and I tripped slightly. Not enough to come tumbling down, but enough to drop what would have been breakfast all over the floor.
My thoughts shifted without my consent from the professional anticipation of nuts in my mouth to my emotional volcano of repressed sorrows and I heard the words “FUCK THIS ENTIRE FUCKING WEEK” escape my mouth before I could reign them in. Luckily, my two witnesses were the two women I know best at work, and they just laughed as I gathered pecans, cashews and almonds from all corners of the office. The nuts had accumulated carpet fuzz, so I deemed them inedible and forcefully threw them in the trash before storming out of the office to catch my breath.
What the hell had just happened?
I’d crossed boundaries, polluting my Nirvana of Numbness with my real-life angst. I need that robot Helen to stabilize the real one, and I’d just put her legitimacy in jeopardy. After a minute or two I returned to the office and sent an apology message to both my coworkers over Skype chat (this is how we communicate since we have international branches).
“Sorry for that outburst guys,” the message read, “It was out of line and unprofessional. I was angry about personal stuff, it really had nothing to do with nuts. Also sorry for finishing the nuts.”
I heard the woman next to me giggle and I looked over. “You sent that to the wrong group,” she said, pointing at her screen.
Rather than sending to the private chat with the three of us, I’d sent the message to our international customer service management team. Now people around the globe knew all about the nuts.
I lightheartedly apologized for the mixup and told the group they were lucky not to have witnessed it, and they fortunately found it entertaining and even sent a few laughing emojis.
However, I learned an important lesson today. Maintaining a professional demeanor may be an exhaustive exertion of superficiality and overused vocabulary, but if we were all completely ourselves at work, not only would everything fall apart, but we’d have no respite from the inner turmoil of our outside lives.
I may think I’m more fucked up than others, and maybe I am, but either way, everyone has worries and personal situations they leave behind when they come to work. Yes, the office is a hellhole. But it’s a hellhole where my dark spiral of anxiety is subdued by a bright white screen, and where I have direction and control.
Most of all, the real Helen is kind of obnoxious, so work is a great excuse to ignore her for nine hours each day.
(083) It’s okay Joyce was a crazy alcoholic I think. I’m doing a character study.
In this riveting new series of lists that I’ll be curating directly from my mind, I’d like to share with you, dear reader, the most irritating moments of my day. Just some tidbits about me being cantankerous.
The first instance of irritability I encountered today greeted me immediately upon rising: my room was cold as fuck, as my roommate had turned off the heat at some point in the night, and the pale morning light was trying to provoke me. Heating the house in Ireland is ridiculously expensive, and if we actually left it on all night, I’d just wind up back here complaining about the electricity bill. Nevertheless, it got me all wound up as I scrambled for a sweater and some sweat pants—because, why would one sleep with pants on? The brisk morning felt much more like a bleak après-ski than the warm, après-sleep I had hoped to wake to. Earlier today though, I had an epiphany during my therapy session, and came up with a really insightful metaphor for my behavior prior to noon on a daily basis: my therapist, also, comically, a midwife (and an active member of the Catholic Church) explained that when babies are born they come out screaming and shaking because they’re scared, they’re in this new unfamiliar space and they instantly miss their cocoon. I could relate to this feeling, it validated me. So, next time you’re upset about the sunrise and the birth of a new day, just think like me: equate leaving your bed with the arrival of a new, beautiful life, and you’ll have a right to scream, shake—and hit snooze.
Aside from being forced to take part in the world of the awake, I had a mental feminist fit in a novelty bookshop while killing time before: you guessed it, my therapy appointment. In the middle of perusing the “adult” coloring books and pages filled with puppies and kitschy quotes, I came across a “sexy” coupon booklet. It was your typical French maid bullshit—each page designed with a fake lipstick kiss with “I promise . . .” doodled submissively, followed by something like “to do all of the housework in the buff for a day.” Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me. This is as creative as we can get in this day and age? We’re not even allowed to be progressive in our subservient, sexist coupons?! How about something real, something raw, something relevant: “I promise . . . to finger your asshole, and not discuss how much you like it later for once because it makes you feel emasculated.” “I promise . . . to humor you when you make me binge watch The Boondocks, and to keep quiet about my brain cells slowly crying and dying during it.” All jokes aside, what really irked me was that no reciprocal coupon book for women was displayed on the table. I’m pretty sure that almost every time a dude has sex, he orgasms. He cums. It’s awesome. And I’m also pretty sure that that does not happen almost every time a girl gets it on. I’d say the dude coupons are unnecessary, maybe even slightly insensitive. Dudes are covered; they don’t need to see your tits out while you’re making toast if we’re not also being served by a naked man, ass out with an apron on. Where’s our “sexy” coupon book? Where’s my “I promise. . . to slap you in the face during sex, but still respect you as my equal” coupon? Where’s the “I’ll go down on you just because” coupon? Where’s the “I’ll purchase a weed whacker to combat the deplorable situation that’s going on in my pants right now” coupon? Where’s the “If one of us finishes, it’s for sure gonna be you this time” coupon. Furthermore and finally: where’s the “I’ll play with your hair, make you mac n cheese, and fall asleep watching BBC with you” coupon? Now, that’s a coupon book I would be interested in buying. If anyone knows a publisher, our email is listed below.
Xanaxes & O’s