AUTHOR: Beth TITLE: DATE: 6/24/2002 11:54:00 PM ----- BODY:
I spent the better part of the day typing things into a computer for an insurance broker. It was actually very therapeutic to just get into that repetitive-motion zone, the one where your thoughts start surfing your own internal Internet until you find yourself typing, "I really miss string cheese," into the data field instead of "Mr Joe A Smith, 904 Blueberry Ln, Stoughton, MA..." The people in that office think I'm really weird. I can tell. You see, usually when I meet new people I either put on this diva-face where I talk my ass off and strive to be the continual absolute center of attention, or I swing to the other end of the spectrum, adopting an it's-always-the-quiet-ones psychopathic lust murderer/cannibal type air. This time I chose the latter, for whatever random-ass reason I ever do anything. Of course, they also liked me in an uncomfortable kind of way, because I type like a bat out of hell with his ass on fire (I don't know--don't ask). Some woman who was eerily like the "looks like somebody has a case of the Mondays" woman in Office Space came into the office and said, "Oooo! I hear you typing away in here! I'm going to steal you from Bob...don't tell him!! Hee Hee!! Byeeee!!" I think I acted so weird though, in part, because I don't know how to deal when I'm not around creative people anymore. Suddenly this office was giving me a whole new perspective on the satires of white-collar dead-enders in The Onion. There was an intake interview for a new broker, and I could just hear the unspoken thoughts on both sides of the conversation. Like: Senior Broker: So, when you make the calls, you-- New Broker: *interrupting like he has every time SB starts to speak* Yeah. Heh. I guess I gotta break down and buy a cell phone now, huh? (You fucking asshole. You and your goddamned technology. Isn't it obvious I can't find any other job? Why else would I become a fucking insurance broker? You think I have the fucking money for that shit??) SB: Yeah. Heh heh. They help though, because--(This fucking dipshit. If he interrupts me one more time, I'll--) NB: Because they make things more efficient, I'd imagine. (Asshole.) SB: *Smiles patiently* (Begins composing suicide note in head) Not that I didn't have a similar experience myself; at one point my boss turned to me and said, "Don't you think you should take a break?" I was about to explain the therapeutic-ness of the data entry to him when I managed to catch the words right before they ran out of my mouth giggling like the maniacs they were. But I think I jumped slightly when I caught them. So to my boss it sounded like: Boss: Don't you think you should take a break? Me: Wuhhhmmppph. So yeah. The therapeutic-ness of the typing, however, helped to offset my otherwise extreme crankiness that I've started off the week with, due in part to little pranks of fate like the fact that I was woken up this morning by a jackhammer. An honest to Christ jackhammer.
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