Show me a good time!

That’s what I hear my inner voice screaming out to my inorganic exterior every time I go back into the ladies washroom (because it is seemingly private unlike any other space in the office) to check upon how my ‘rich, inner self’ is doing in the course of a workday. That, very often, and some times it repeatedly warns me with a nervous twitch, “Abhi meeting hain, aur leakage ki tension” where leakage is not as in a Whisper ad, but as in ’emotional leakage’. Yes, I need to be warned because I find it excruciatingly painful to have to conceal signs of revulsion – like nausea, shortness of breath, palpitations, shakiness, pins and needles, flushing – when I’m expected to watch a series of videos like this AND applaud AND be moved to tears like every other co-employee, as part of the ‘Office Day’ celebrations presided over by the CEO, once a month. Menstruation is not the worst part of the month anymore.

The CEO of the place I work at eats clichés for breakfast, packs clichés in a lunch-box and force-feeds everyone in office with clichés dipped in condescension. I hate him, much like I hate every one else I come into the slightest contact with at office and my hatred runs to the molecular level…that if you rub off some cells from the inside of my cheek onto a cotton swab while I’m at office and isolate the DNA and then check that DNA under a high-powered electron microscope, English translation of my DNA sequence would read different combinations of the letters H, A, T, E and not A, T, C, G running along the length of every strand. In a manner of speaking. That is extreme epigenetics at play.

As sour and plagued as I may sound by the idea of working a white-collar job, the fact is that I have only had to work for a mere three months minus seven days so far. I am a new yuppie on the bandwagon. I’d managed to squeeze in more weekend parties and reunions and girls’ night-outs than what I estimated I could under two months, given the work conditions. So, I am supposed to be having a good time right now in this new and exciting place but I am not. My soul is still screaming out to the universe to show it a good time. In the middle of a workday, in the middle of a meeting with the snob-stink CEO, in the middle of a regular weekend outing, in the middle of shopping for a good book, in the middle of running into an old friend, in the middle of a good short nap. Nothing I do on the weekend to placate my enraged inner self seems to make up for the A-class shit I have to put it through for the rest of the week.

While I’m spending my precious weekend time every week (of which I just get half because Saturday is a working day) cribbing and mentally reliving the cock-flavored working days of the week like this, every other person I know (in more or less the same situation as me) is enjoying the weekend hours with no thought or flying fuck spared to give to their respective offices/bosses. Why am I not able to do that? I have no logical answer to that but I pose that question to myself every now and then in order to keep up the good habit of introspection or psychological self-preservation.

Some of the statements that emanate out of the sparsely distributed, fleeting moments of my vague introspection: I lost my sparkle and my sense of humor and I know not where to look for those. I struggle to put my thoughts to paper. I am afraid of censure now more than ever. I am afraid of love and I ooze ghosts of my past lovers. I hate to get back in touch with my friends who are married (whether they married total strangers or long-time lovers.) More so if they married their lovers. I believe it is hypocritical and unnatural to marry someone you already love. It’s all over for me now. I enjoy drinking coffee only as much as I enjoy looking at it in pictures. With chocolate, the situation is much worse.

On a side note, some of the things that were waiting all these years to fall into my list of most-hated things ever AND finally did: touch-sensitive phones, friends who talk too much about themselves and not even bother asking what’s up with you, high-school friends who you had no respect for when in high school. There were reasons why you hated someone when in school and those reasons remain whether or not you remember them.

Five things I hate about my job

5. Old Men The average age of my office is 45 years. Old fucking men everywhere. By old men, I do not mean salt-and-pepper-haired handsome ones – like George Clooneys of real life. No. Nor am I referring to the friendly neighborhood grandpa type who smells like farm-fresh milk and oven-baked cookies his sweet old wife makes (and sends over to the entire neighborhood every fortnight). No, no. I’m talking about wobbly, wrinkled, wretched old men who smell like diabetic dick. They are EVERYWHERE. And I truly mean EVERYWHERE in the office. They are disgracefully aging in the cabins, trying to make sense of the computers in the cubicles, feeding on soft-boiled food in the canteen, quite imaginably pissing all over the toilets, vegetating at the gates dressed in security guard uniforms, and mostly crawling up and down the corridors all day long on their creaky knees trying to peek into other people’s business.

1024x768_herbertHamstrings

4. Single Young Female Yes, singular, ‘female’. I wish it were a woman though. Unfortunately, there is just one young female in the office, besides me. Even more unfortunately, I was forced by circumstance into sharing a flat with her. “What’s so bad about living with a female flatmate,” one might wonder. “Everyone shares a flat at some point in their career,” one would say, “What’s the big deal? Why the fuss? Of course it’s not easy to share living space with another at this age…but you got to adjust.” Well, the woes of living with a blood-sucking vampire would surely be much less painful to relate, so I just keep quiet in the face of all the free advice and frivolous criticism. The big deal is that I was too blind to her pointy nose and extra high-arched eyebrows in the first couple of meetings with her. The nose and the face in general were strikingly odd but, I for one being a vehement non-believer in the ‘first impressions’ theory, resisted reading any superficial details before knowing the person intimately. I forcibly blocked the facial-feature-alert my brain kept receiving: “Beware! Anjelica Huston from THE WITCHES! THE WITCHES! Beware!” and consciously juxtaposed it with “Roberto Benigni’s cute-but-creepy Pinocchio. Cute nose. Somewhat Cute.” There, I had it coming!

thewitchesanjelica

3. Saturday A working day. Weekend is equal to Sunday. Basically, I am stuck in a tiny cubicle with a dick-faced vexatious old man for thirteen days at a stretch, cut off from daylight, oblivious to happy sounds and human voices, alien to any form of human contact for that matter, except for a teeny weeny Sunday (smack in the middle of thirteen days) which I cannot but spend in slumber. And that’s when I dream and all my dreams are set in and around my office. That’s a major step in lucid dreaming!saturdayworkingnotgonnahappen

2. Food Can’t eat the kind of food I get served at office or home and consequently, don’t have the energy to talk about it.

officefood

1. CEO Despite my poor command on my third language, Hindi, I know the perfect word in it that can wholesomely describe this personality across all dimensions and cross-sections, down to his very chromosome. The word is KUTTICHOD.

hatemyjob

[Edit: On September 12, 2013 I had set the privacy mode on for this particular post because I was (after speaking/ranting to a bunch of old acquaintances made to feel) afraid that my real feelings about my employer and workplace, if exposed, would jeopardize my job. LoL.

Today, that is August 31, 2014, as I was going through the blog-posts I had written ranting about my job (and my life thereof), I started to get disappointed that I hadn’t ranted strongly enough, until I realized that I had hidden this post away in the private stash. I instantly made it ‘public’ again, and read every word of it with sweet satisfaction. Thank God I am rid of that diseased workplace, and the plagued job. Thanks to my memory today and to my urge to put those horrible times down in writing back then. I can really savor every minute of every day these days, specially when I think back to those life-draining days in office, subordinated to retarded salesmen who, in the real world (that is the world outside of that socially-insulated company), would not even come close to the fringes of my social and intellectual life given an entire lifetime. In saying that I’m not trying to demean their social skills or intellectual abilities though they clearly fall drastically short in both. It’s just that morally and spiritually they have resigned to the idea of being the scum of the planet despite having enough opportunity to be better; and this pitiable attitude of theirs reflected in every occasion I had to interact with them in the course of my work. They sold their souls to the devil.

Ah, life is good!]