- by admin
while fixing the printer today.
part of my job is performing some basic IT services even though I'm not terribly good at it. I mean yes I can do entry-level, first year of college type maintenance but anything that requires more than the knowledge I acquired while constantly de-virusing my parents computer I make my boss call a technician whose job it actually is to do that sort of stuff.
anyway today apparently there was a problem with the printer. except there wasn't.
but that's not the point in this story.
the point is the person trying to do the printing, I think, is a bit on the crazy side. I've come to this conclusion because she had me check and double-check the stuff she was printing and it was these letters to someone at the CBC about how the Commies are coming into her house at night and stealing her thoughts. her ideas.
she said that they were coming in and putting straws to her ears and sucking them out and she knew because she could hear them talking in her dreams. their voices were magnified into the straw and into her ear, she said.
I didn't ask any questions. just handed her the letters and went back to my regular job. I was actually kinda convincing myself that maybe she was writing some sort of fiction novel, or something like that. it was just so weird.
except just now she came down and wanted to use the photocopier and took out a book with the word 'TRANSFORMATION' on the cover and started making photocopies of the front and back cover. like, six or seven copies each.
since non-office personnel have to pay for photocopies 'round here I casually asked her what she was photocopying and she looked at me over her shoulder and said
I need to mail these to some people
in a voice that I swear would give alfred hitchcock goosebumps.
I think I was wrong about the fiction book-writing. I think she thinks it's for real.
I wonder what that book is about. and who is she sending all those copies to?
and, mostly, I'm kinda sad. because her made-up life is probably way more interesting than mine.
- by admin
one of the good things about my work is that I get to do a lot of cool stuff like go on lunch excursions and help throw massive 500-person events and bring in entertainers and stuff.
today we brought in a group of improv performers who would 'act out' a story that an audience member told. it's pretty cool, actually.
except when it's my turn.
most people I know wouldn't believe me but public speaking freaks me out.
especially when I'm unprepared.
(mostly when I'm unprepared)
like when I'm sitting in a room with twenty people and they're all urging me to tell a "funny story" and I'm trying to politely decline and they're all going
alyson yr so funny. tell us a funny story alyson.
so on the spot I ramble some lame and completely unfunny story because who can come up with a funny story on the spot?
not me I tell you.
and halfway through I realize 'shit this isn't funny. this isn't even a good story'
and I feel the shakes and redness and wobbly voice kick in
and of course the woman running the improv group is doting on me because she can tell that I'm getting anxious and telling me what a good job I'm doing and
she keeps focusing on me and putting her hand on my shoulder which is making it worse because her weird clammy hand is on my skin and
they're going through the motions improv-ing this horrible story which is just making it worse because it's not funny and I can feel myself getting redder and redder and I'm playing with my rings and my fingernails and anything I can pick at or twist
and of course I can't just leave. getting up and walking out would just make it worse so I tell myself
just sit through it. it'll be over soon.
and then omg the woman is kneeling in front of me telling me how it's okay and how I'm 'such a sport' for sharing and just
no. fuck off. you're making it worse. go dote on someone else
I want to yell. but I don't because it's work and it's not polite to yell at the improv lady so I don't
I sit there twisting my ring and my hair and feeling my face flush bright red
waiting for this horrible experience to end.
now I remember why I hate improv.