Conversation between me and DiscoJamboree in my office this week:
DJ: Oh my god. What’s with your voice?
Me: I’m sick. I know. I sound like I’ve been smoking camels, straight.
Me: Yeah, like, I rip the filters off?
DJ: Why wouldn’t you just buy the unfiltered ones?
Me: They make unfiltered ones?
DJ: Yeah. But you’d kind of already outted yourself as not being a smoker when you referred to smoking them “straight“.
Me: I’m pretty sure that’s what you call it.
DJ: No. You call it “unfiltered”.
Me: Oh. I think you can say “straight” too.
DJ: No. No you can’t.
Me: Or EXTREME!
DJ: Extreme smoking? No. Besides, you don’t smell nearly bad enough to be a smoker.
Me: Wait…what do you mean “nearly“?
Me: Like, why did you have to qualify it with “nearly“? What are you saying?
DJ: You are insane and I’m leaving.
Me: Wait! Do you have any razor blades that you could give me?
DJ: Yeah. That’s pretty much the last thing that I would ever give you.
Me: Only if I did it correctly.
DJ: What’s the hell is wrong with you?
Me (pointing behind me): Actually I just want to open my windows. They’re painted shut.
DJ: We’re on the 18th floor. I’m not going help you open your window on the 18th floor. That’s like me leaving you with a bottle of cyanide. Or a footbath with a toaster nearby.
Me: I’m not gonna jump. I’ve just been obsessed with opening the windows in my office for the last year. They have latches so they must have opened at one time before 50 years of paint got slapped on them. I almost had one chiseled out but then someone pushed a file cabinet in front of it. Possibly they were trying to protect me from myself.
DJ: Wait. Is that why this latch looks all gnawed up?
Me: I’d been working on it during lunch hours, like a prison break. My only concern is that I don’t see any hinges anywhere so I’m kinda afraid that when I open it, the whole window will just fall out into the street and then that would be hard to explain.
DJ: You mean that you’ve created a wind-tunnel on the 18th floor?
Me: I was thinking more in terms of the pedestrians on the street, but yeah, that wind tunnel thingy sounds bad too. It’d be like a vacuum and all this rain would be pouring in on me and I’ll be typing and acting like “What? What’s everyone looking at?”
DJ: Like you hadn’t noticed that you were soaking wet and papers were flying all over the place until someone pointed it out.
DJ: You’re awesome.
Me: Well, you’re awesome too. Even though you won’t give me cyanide.
DJ (pointing at me as he walks away): Cyanide’s not going to help you open the window, buckaroo. And now you’re busted. Fat chance of getting the razorblades from me now.
Me: I’M NOT TRYING TO KILL MYSELF!
My boss down the hall: What?!
Me: Oh nothing.
Comment of the day: I can’t even imagine your personnel file. New entry: “Jenny wants a razor blade and cyanide; denies trying to kill herself. Have supply bring up another filing cabinet.” ~Mary