Crazy (But That's How It Goes)

I really try to not use this blog as a forum to file my work-related grievances because, well, I'm fairly sure no one finds that sort of blog in any way interesting. As far as I'm concerned, you all would much rather read a bunch of poop jokes coupled with tales of drunkenness that are as pathetic as they are grossly exaggerated; that's been my formula for (meager) success for over a year and a half and I see no reason to change it now. Except... okay, there's this one thing going on here at the office that I can't keep inside my attractive, well-shaped head any longer. In the words of singer/songwriter/religious-fanatic Cat Stevens, I've gotta let it out, I've got to show the world, world's gotta see.

The issue? The guy who sits behind me is crazy. And not like, "Oh, he so crazy... he's always crackin' wise and busting out that hilarious Borat impression." No, he's crazy like, "Oh, he's been carrying on a conversation with himself for the last fifteen minutes and, what's more, he seems to think that no one can hear him. Shit, he's looking this way! Is that a knife?!?! AAAAIIIIEEEEE!!!"

Ahem...

Anyway, yeah, the guy behind me... we'll call him "Roy," since I don't know anyone by that name... is out of his mind in much the same way that Pluto is out of we Earthling's line of sight. Dig that cat, he's real gone.

It's mainly the "talks to himself" thing. I wasn't joking up there when I mentioned that Roy will carry on a conversation with himself for long stretches of time. It's true. In fact, he's doing it right now while I type this. It sounds like he's currently debating the merits of mailing a document versus faxing it and, I don't know, it doesn't seem like there's going to be any easy answers on this one. He's really concerned about it getting lost in the mail, but then again... dammit... he's worried that the image quality on the fax will be far inferior due to our office's sub par machine.

I'm not joking, he's still talking about this! WITH HIMSELF!!! Seriously, it's like someone set up my cubicle in the background of any scene in One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest.

So, naturally, and in an effort to maintain my own sanity, I've decided to retaliate. Roy's not the only one who can confound, irritate, and frighten people with his craziness; I took theater classes for like fifteen years and I can bust out some mad acting skills any time I want. What? Why are all of you laughing? It's because of the "I took theater classes for fifteen years" thing, isn't it? Yeah well, I got three words for you: Easy Theater Chicks.

*SNAP*

I also took tap lessons for eight years; you wanna fight about it? I will shuffle-ball-change all over your face!!! BRING IT OOOOOWWWWNNN!!!

Anyway, here's what I've come up with:

-I think it's about time me and my tape dispenser started a very public, very messy relationship. We're talkin' mucho PDA (with tongue), gross pet names, and at least one screaming, tear-soaked fight per week. Followed, of course, by some very public, very messy make-up sex.

-Mondays and Wednesdays, I'm workin' topless. Tuesdays and Thursdays, bottomless. Fridays? Nude as the day I was born, which was just unbelievably nude. Too nude, some would say.

-White Out shots.

-Over the span of a couple of weeks, I'm going to slowly turn my cubicle into a shrine devoted to his high holiness, Rev. Skippy McApplefriar. Who is Rev. Skippy McApplefriar? Why, he's the tiny man who lives in my back molar, of course. He tells me things about the government. Secret things.

-I'm going to start working more efficiently, thus improving my productivity and labeling me as a "go-getter." And I'm going to do it all while communicating entirely through hand-puppets.

Yep, Roy's never going to see me coming. Especially since he'll be too busy conversing with himself to notice.