Don’t Snap At Work: A Cautionary Tale


Todd the intern took your parking spot this morning. It’s not really your spot, but everyone knows not to park there because you do. Now you have to inconveniently walk the 30 extra feet to the front door. Robyn, who’s in the cubicle adjacent to yours, taps her nails on her desk to the beat of a three-year-old Justin Bieber song, forcing you to subsequently stare a hole through the cubicle wall until your death glare penetrates her brain. You go to the break room and watch that fucker Todd pour all but the last drop of coffee into his “Class of ’14” mug and walk away without putting another pot on. It’s cool, you’ll manage to choke down that last swig of cold, hour-old Starbucks somehow. Cackling Cathy, the office secretary, makes her rounds with pictures of her grandkids in tow–this means it’s the perfect time for you to take your morning poop break. You’re just about to drop trow when Kevin from HR comes barreling through the door, making it incredibly obvious as to what horrific act is about to take place. You sit quietly and miserably in your stall, not just because you’re listening to a higher power take a shit, but, at this point, you really do need to poop. Your morning poop has been botched and you can’t even complain about it, so you decide to take an early lunch solely as a means to get out of the office and collect yourself. Diane asks you where you’re going, and knowing no answer will suit her, you play 20 Questions with her until she runs out of pointless shit to ask you–you’re not about to fall for that trap and have unwelcome guests ruin your 11 a.m. nap. You power point your boss as you walk by his office door, solely because it’s the only high your day has to offer you.

As you walk back into the office feeling well-rested, you think your day may just start to look up; however, your boss just made you his bitch. As it turns out, the power move you threw your boss earlier reminded him that sections five and six of the proposal you put blood, sweat, and tears into for a month needs revisions. Revising sections five and six subsequently turns into also revising sections seven through a billion. Your blood pressure shoots up, far past any over/under considered healthy by our species. Your palms become clammy and you begin to sweat profusely. The splitting headache that has manifested inside your skull in the last 20 seconds feels as if someone literally tried to split wood with your head. Cathy comes by and, “Well, I didn’t get a chance to show you earlier, but…”

You lose it.

I won’t get into the details or “technicalities” of the next 15 minutes, but for the sake of the piece, let’s just say they were bad.

When you’re riding in the back of a police car, you don’t have to worry about someone stealing your parking space, and you are graciously chauffeured directly to the front door. You are even escorted inside, wearing two rather dashing stainless steel bracelets. In booking, you hear someone humming the same damn Biebs song Robyn was maliciously tapping to earlier. You look around and notice that the “someone” humming it, though, is a 250-pound Redwood who goes by the name “Bones.” You decide you don’t want to find out why. You do not get angry. You do not look. You try not to breathe Bones’s air.

In questioning, they bring you black coffee in a styrofoam cup. The first and last time you drank black coffee was for that all-nighter you pulled freshman year before you knew the beauty of Adderall, but you’re too afraid to ask for sugar, much less the Coffee-Mate Girl Scouts Thin Mint creamer. Even Todd’s stupid “Class of ’14” mug is looking good to you–at least it’s ceramic.

After questioning, a stout-looking woman who looks as old as your grandma but as short as your sister begins to walk you down a desolate, white hallway. She goes by the name of “Mad Dog,” although you’re not sure why. The other inmates begin to bark at her as she escorts you to your new home (until your mom and dad post your bail). In your cell with your new “friends,” someone tries to show you pictures of her grandkids, and you only wish she looked as sweet and innocent as Cathy. You know better than to refuse–you’ve seen “Prison Diaries” on TLC before–and even if you wanted to, there is no poop break escape. The “bathroom” is a 2 x 2 x 2 box in the corner that the guy brought in for a DUI is currently occupying (and marking his territory with via vomit).

You’re starving because you took a nap instead of making a trip to Chipotle, but the moment you see what their definition of dinner is, you suddenly lose your appetite and recount on how you wish you had taken Diane out for a nice soup, salad, and breadsticks meal at Olive Garden. You make the mistake of giving the guy in the corner a lingering glance and he made something of it. You learn his name is Dee, and he’d like you to be his bitch. Though you are flattered, you’re just not into him the same way he’s into you. Upon learning this, he says such hurtful things that you begin to shed actual tears and have thoughts of just wanting your mommy.

You look up at the clock and realize it’s 6 o’clock, and that you could be home watching reruns of “Blue Mountain State” on Netflix right now.

You don’t want to be in a jail cell with hardened criminals, shedding tears, wanting your mommy, and Netflix-less.

It’s better to just take another poop break, collect yourself, and get back out there, tiger. Nobody wants to be Dee’s bitch.

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My state gave you J. Law, Clooney, two-fifths of the Backstreet Boys, and multiple fifths of bourbon. I gave you a cover letter using Brian McKnight lyrics. Psuedo-adult by day; PGP, TFM, and TSM contributor by night. Please don't ask me to do math.

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