The lady who works in the space behind me makes me want to gouge my eyeballs out with forks. But then I’d be blind and knowing Murphy, I’d still be forced to somehow work here. So rather than going blind, she makes me want to stick fire pokers in my ears. It's her voice. It annoys the ever lovin' piss outta me with its shrill that reminds me of cats in heat. It wouldn’t be so bad to deal with except she's on the phone with her husband several times a day using terms like “Buddy” and “Golly” and “Good boy” as if he was a dog. It drives me fucking insane.
I've tried leaving my work space when she gets on the phone with "Buddy," but then how could I look busy at work?
I've tried playing the radio to help drown out her sounds, but because of the generally quiet work environment I can't keep the radio at a level loud enough to do so. (Wouldn't want to disturb daydreaming to the lulling whoosh of air pushing through the ceiling vents or fingers tap dancing across their keyboards. Wouldn't want to disturb eavesdropping on coworkers talking about the football game. Wouldn't want to disturb snapping back to reality when a phone rings or the nearby printer whirs and spits out someones work.)
So I endure the shrill.
I endure pet names and one million Mmm-hmm’s.
I endure it all because of a haunting image:
I sneak up behind her, take the curly black cord attached to the phone she talks into and wrap it around her neck. Over and over and over again. The curls of the cord embed into her neck. She starts to gasp for air. A muffled "Hello!" seeps from the ear piece of the phone. Her arms and hands reach for me… flail for anything… but only find their way onto her neck where I pull even harder at the cord. Blood seeps from the curls of the cord tattooed into her neck now, and a smile emerges onto my face.
Golly gee, Buddy. Does this hurt? Does it hurt the way my ears hurt every fucking day I have to listen to you?!
Between her and an old boss from an old job who’d clip his fucking nails at the desk next to me when he wasn’t chewing his food with his mouth open, it’s no wonder I haven’t lost my marbles quite yet at the workplace.
Or have I?