So there’s this woman whom unfortunately I keep running into at work who looks like one of those S&M erotica librarian secretary models with rhinestone embedded cateye glasses and black curly hair styled up to maker her appear even more intimidating and suggesting that she may be wearing this whatever business outfit now but at home she appears in black leather with lace and a black whip. She hates me, and I have to say, I rather share some of the same sentiments towards her. Although there’s perhaps a bit more fear than hate. After all, she looks like she could slap me with her leather gear and sprinkle blood all over the place–and I have no pain tolerance.
Anyway, any time she appears I feel a shiver scramble up inside, and it is difficult, I have to make such a conscious and fake effort to smile and pretend friendliness and politeness (which, I mean, I do generally as a rule), and in my state of nervousness generally fuck up whatever service she requires. However, her little habit of now intentionally waiting until someone else can help her is even more insulting. In my head, I’m playing over fantasy scenarios where I tell her to fuck off, and that she’s far from the high and mighty queen bitch she thinks she is. I’m slowly, deliberately scanning her books repeatedly with a false smile, telling her that this might take a while. I’m slowly counting and double counting her change…all in pennies. I’m examining every little digit on her check with her driver’s license, and scrutinizing the check itself for minutes that seem like hours to her impatient royalty. I’m dog earring her precious books and slamming them in thing backs and ripping them in the center before giving her a glowing “have a wonderful day in hell!”
Of course, none of this would ever happen. I think. At least not until I know it’ll be one of the last times I’ll see her and I’m about to quit. There would be such a perverse satisfaction when it does, however, that any anger from my managers would be brushed off with laugh. Or perhaps, more truth that shouldn’t dare be revealed.
Sometimes I wonder about this burning hatred I hold for the human race. How almost every individual seems a sadistic, pyschopath at heart, or so entirely dumb and stubborn that I feel like playing even dumber. The twisted scenarios and exchanges in my head are fleeting but vivid, and great fun and helps in productivity. There’s nothing like flaming insults bubbling from your throat to drive you to throw horrid books written by hackers without talent into their respective stuffed filled shelves and sections.