Accidentally Incommunicado
Sep. 11th, 2012 06:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
loaded_marchSo, there's this thing called "work" where everything short of a zombie mob and genetically-engineered dinosaurs has conspired to detract me from, you know, having anything remotely ressembling any kind of brain matter to rub together at the end of the day, and the only reason I have a list of things for you is because I took notes of everything I did today. So I am giving you a gratuitous "A Day In The Life" with random quotes that I may or may not have said out loud. (HINT: I have no brain-to-mouth filter)
In sequence, starting from 4:12 AM, which is when I woke up:
"My God, dog. I have three whole minutes before I really need to get out of bed, and, seriously, did you just slap me?"
In a stalling tactic to try to attain some sort of consciousness that won't result with me face-planting on the road when I go running, I skim through LJ when I thought, Self, do I really want to sign up to one more fest?
Sign ups are open for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
merlinreversebb!
A Merlin challenge where artists make art that authors claim to write fics based off.
The Rules and Schedule
Sign Ups: Artist | Author | Fic and Art Betas
To which I replied, Oh, self, yes, you do. I figure, I did a BB where I got art for something I wrote (even if some of it is still pending), it's only right that I sign up to write fic for artwork. Unfortunately, I have no idea what my schedule will be like over the next few months, so we'll see what happens between now and then. As of right now, I have not signed up.
Sometime later, at the gym (yes, I do go from running to the gym):
"Oh. EW. Don't do that, old dude. I know you're friendly, but don't hug me. I'm sweaty, you're sweaty, I have a thing about hugs, I have an even worse thing about sweaty hugs, and I have my finger over the nuclear meltdown button about sweaty hugs from old guys whose names I don't know but say hello to at the gym because I'm nice like that, and who stare down my top and check out my ass every time I bend down. GO AWAY."
Later, at work:
"Really, Machine #1? You had to stop operating 1.5 hours after I went home last night? You couldn't have done it while I was still here? Now I have to re-do everything. Well, screw you, you're not the boss of me, I am smarter than you, I will totally bypass your sad shit."
"... did he even read my email? I asked him a question. It's right there in the second paragraph. It's bolded and in red font. He couldn't possibly have missed it. Maybe it wasn't phrased in the form of a question. Let's see. Can you please do this for me. Yup. That's a question. Why is he replying with it sounds like you have it well in hand -- fuck that noise, of course I have it well in hand, and I will crush his balls with them if he doesn't do the thing I asked him for."
"Yay! You refreshed your candy bowl! I need a sugar rush like I need air. Thank you!"
"Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt -- wait. You want me to help? Um. It looks like you're in an awkward situation, but I know better than to get involved when one of two people has a very big wrench in one hand and a tube of mechanical lube in the other. I'll hang the privacy sign on the door. Try to keep the noise down."
"Did... what. Did she just email me to say I lack confidence in your and your colleagues' ablilities to resolve this issue so I am purchasing incompatible equipment without consulting you or having a good grasp of your protocols or your needs or your future plans, and please ignore all and every procedure that you have had in place and do what I tell you from now on while I shove this piece of shit down your throat? Yes, yes, she did. Holy shit. Now I remember why I wasn't friends with her in high school. Woman, this is so not on. Where is the bitchslap button on my keyboard? WHY DO I NOT HAVE A BITCHSLAP BUTTON?"
"Did you put a freeze-dried bug on my desk? A big one? With wings? It's totally awesome!"
"Goddamn it, Machine #2, why are you not working, you were working fine last week, and, oh -- I see. You sprung a leak. Gross. Just, gross. Okay, where's my assistant? Seriously? Where? I'm not cleaning this shit up, where is she? Oh, come on. I'm wearing my new T-shirt today, where's -- Oh! Hello, my favourite assistant in the whole wide world. You know how you've been asking me for things to do?"
"Ugh. Why is this even an issue? You realize that in the time you spent bitching about it, you could've actually finished this job? How about next time, you just shut up and do what I say because everything I say is right except when I'm wrong, which never happens in any of the Dr Who timeverses?"
Coworker: "Can I borrow you for a second?"
Me: "Sure, but around here? The rental rates are pretty steep. You may want to shop around, I might be cheaper somewhere else."
Coworker: "..."
"Well, those were 32 minutes of my life that I'm never going to get back. We don't know if the label will stick to the label on the container. How is that a valid argument? It's a label. It sticks to things. Wait, maybe the instructions aren't clear. Let me explain it to you -- first, you have to peel the sticker off the wax paper backing. Then you put the wax paper backing in the garbage so that you don't try to affix it to the container, because, you know, that's just not going to happen unless you superglue it, and even then, completely dubious. Then you take the label and -- this is the tricky part -- you put the sticky side down. The sticky side. No, the sticky side --"
Later, at the store where I'm a regular and the people there know me fairly well (those poor people!), buying protein powder (because I do not eat enough protein):
Salesperson: "Do you drink this stuff?"
Me: "No, I sprinkle it in my garden to increase the protein content of my vegetables."
Customer: "I didn't know you could do that!"
Me: "Yeah, it's a totally new thing. There was an article in the paper. Boosts protein content by 21%. It works better than sprouting, and this brand is the best."
Salesperson: (trying really hard not to laugh)
Me: "Are you all right? You look like you're having a seizure."
Much later, at home:
"Why are there warning labels on things? If there weren't any warning labels, my life would be easier, because all the people giving me grief wouldn't exist. No, you're not allowed to say anything. Just give me a hug. I need one that doesn't involve strange sweaty old men who look down my top. You don't count. I know your name."
.
In sequence, starting from 4:12 AM, which is when I woke up:
"My God, dog. I have three whole minutes before I really need to get out of bed, and, seriously, did you just slap me?"
In a stalling tactic to try to attain some sort of consciousness that won't result with me face-planting on the road when I go running, I skim through LJ when I thought, Self, do I really want to sign up to one more fest?
Sign ups are open for the
merlinreversebb!A Merlin challenge where artists make art that authors claim to write fics based off.
The Rules and Schedule
Sign Ups: Artist | Author | Fic and Art Betas
To which I replied, Oh, self, yes, you do. I figure, I did a BB where I got art for something I wrote (even if some of it is still pending), it's only right that I sign up to write fic for artwork. Unfortunately, I have no idea what my schedule will be like over the next few months, so we'll see what happens between now and then. As of right now, I have not signed up.
Sometime later, at the gym (yes, I do go from running to the gym):
"Oh. EW. Don't do that, old dude. I know you're friendly, but don't hug me. I'm sweaty, you're sweaty, I have a thing about hugs, I have an even worse thing about sweaty hugs, and I have my finger over the nuclear meltdown button about sweaty hugs from old guys whose names I don't know but say hello to at the gym because I'm nice like that, and who stare down my top and check out my ass every time I bend down. GO AWAY."
Later, at work:
"Really, Machine #1? You had to stop operating 1.5 hours after I went home last night? You couldn't have done it while I was still here? Now I have to re-do everything. Well, screw you, you're not the boss of me, I am smarter than you, I will totally bypass your sad shit."
"... did he even read my email? I asked him a question. It's right there in the second paragraph. It's bolded and in red font. He couldn't possibly have missed it. Maybe it wasn't phrased in the form of a question. Let's see. Can you please do this for me. Yup. That's a question. Why is he replying with it sounds like you have it well in hand -- fuck that noise, of course I have it well in hand, and I will crush his balls with them if he doesn't do the thing I asked him for."
"Yay! You refreshed your candy bowl! I need a sugar rush like I need air. Thank you!"
"Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt -- wait. You want me to help? Um. It looks like you're in an awkward situation, but I know better than to get involved when one of two people has a very big wrench in one hand and a tube of mechanical lube in the other. I'll hang the privacy sign on the door. Try to keep the noise down."
"Did... what. Did she just email me to say I lack confidence in your and your colleagues' ablilities to resolve this issue so I am purchasing incompatible equipment without consulting you or having a good grasp of your protocols or your needs or your future plans, and please ignore all and every procedure that you have had in place and do what I tell you from now on while I shove this piece of shit down your throat? Yes, yes, she did. Holy shit. Now I remember why I wasn't friends with her in high school. Woman, this is so not on. Where is the bitchslap button on my keyboard? WHY DO I NOT HAVE A BITCHSLAP BUTTON?"
"Did you put a freeze-dried bug on my desk? A big one? With wings? It's totally awesome!"
"Goddamn it, Machine #2, why are you not working, you were working fine last week, and, oh -- I see. You sprung a leak. Gross. Just, gross. Okay, where's my assistant? Seriously? Where? I'm not cleaning this shit up, where is she? Oh, come on. I'm wearing my new T-shirt today, where's -- Oh! Hello, my favourite assistant in the whole wide world. You know how you've been asking me for things to do?"
"Ugh. Why is this even an issue? You realize that in the time you spent bitching about it, you could've actually finished this job? How about next time, you just shut up and do what I say because everything I say is right except when I'm wrong, which never happens in any of the Dr Who timeverses?"
Coworker: "Can I borrow you for a second?"
Me: "Sure, but around here? The rental rates are pretty steep. You may want to shop around, I might be cheaper somewhere else."
Coworker: "..."
"Well, those were 32 minutes of my life that I'm never going to get back. We don't know if the label will stick to the label on the container. How is that a valid argument? It's a label. It sticks to things. Wait, maybe the instructions aren't clear. Let me explain it to you -- first, you have to peel the sticker off the wax paper backing. Then you put the wax paper backing in the garbage so that you don't try to affix it to the container, because, you know, that's just not going to happen unless you superglue it, and even then, completely dubious. Then you take the label and -- this is the tricky part -- you put the sticky side down. The sticky side. No, the sticky side --"
Later, at the store where I'm a regular and the people there know me fairly well (those poor people!), buying protein powder (because I do not eat enough protein):
Salesperson: "Do you drink this stuff?"
Me: "No, I sprinkle it in my garden to increase the protein content of my vegetables."
Customer: "I didn't know you could do that!"
Me: "Yeah, it's a totally new thing. There was an article in the paper. Boosts protein content by 21%. It works better than sprouting, and this brand is the best."
Salesperson: (trying really hard not to laugh)
Me: "Are you all right? You look like you're having a seizure."
Much later, at home:
"Why are there warning labels on things? If there weren't any warning labels, my life would be easier, because all the people giving me grief wouldn't exist. No, you're not allowed to say anything. Just give me a hug. I need one that doesn't involve strange sweaty old men who look down my top. You don't count. I know your name."
.
