Friday, April 21, 2006

Have a nice day.

Today: My heel catches on a cable line snaking out from under the desk. I crash to the floor, landing on three-points: heel of the left hand, both kneecaps. In spite of swearing not to, in spite of counting to ten, twenty, one hundred and twenty, I am losing it with anyone who crosses my path.

I have gin and tonic and charred mammal for lunch.

Or as Weedy puts it, if the people who really know me were to describe me, “nice” would not be the first adjective that came to mind.

I tell this to the Scorpio. An amused gleam in his eyes. “Well,” he says, pretending to search for something reassuring, “you don’t like having to hurt people’s feelings.” I glare at him.

Sometimes I do.” Belligerent. He guffaws. “I’m telling you – I’m suspicious of nice people. What’s really going on, anyway? What are they up to? What the hell is their game?” He beams at me. “And by the way,” I tell him, jabbing him in the ribs for emphasis, “I don’t know what you’re laughing at – you aren’t nice either.”

“Yes I am,” he assures me, smiling beatifically, “on my nice days.”

“Oh fine. Well anyone can be nice on their nice days.”

So, I say to Weedy (keep up, we are moving back to another conversation here) – “What would they say?” There is a pause on the other end of the line. A noticeable pause.

“Well. You’re artistic.” Oh f-cking great. I’m a rotten shite of a human being, but at least I make pretty stuff. All the pretty goes into the stuff, matter of fact.

Which is why it is necessary for humanity that I immediately win the lottery and quit being forced to make a living dealing with nice people all day long. Nice people who are not doing their jobs meaning I have to yell at them because it is my job to see that they do their jobs. Nice people who are not saying what they mean or doing what they say or, in fact, paying any attention at all. Nice people as clueless as budgies. Nice people who worry about my stress levels, aloud, and want to help talk me through it.

People? Yesterday’s work is somewhere buried in the desk-fill. My working surfaces are obliterated with post-it notes and memos, all of them urgent and stating a deadline. Most of the dealines are now. At 3:00 pm I haven’t checked my email – because I’m afraid. My phone is ringing, three people are waiting to tell me I am responsible for the fact that they’ve incurred huge fines by steadfastly ignoring all overdue notices. They have to pay for them, which means, in turn, they will starve on the street, fail to graduate and break their parent’s hearts and it is definitely my fault. If you want to help my stress level, get out of my face and let me deal with these things instead of trying to accumulate Good Human Being Points by rendering uninvited drive-by therapy. My kneecaps are swelling and my thumb doesn’t want to move. And if you don’t stop nicing me now, I’m warning you (as I begin to count one thousand) you are exactly one gin and tonic away from becoming a newspaper headline.

Nice person dies at hands of Librarian. People who knew the suspect say she was “artistic.” Close friends reveal they always knew it would happen some day.