02/2008 Part II
I am busy to death. My desk is like a bad imitation of a real desk, teetering piles of paper, staplers of no apparent purpose or design, four half-full lukewarm cups of coffee and I am not going to throw away a single one because I might NEED them. I am too busy to think, eat, sleep, talk, be. Not entirely, in my off-hours I do pretty well, but only as far as a book, my couch, and a cup of tea. Nothing else exists. Nothing else can. If I am not work work work, then I am not leaving my couch to talk to anybody except my therapist. This is called “wintertime.” This is called “wintertime, goddammit.”
Last night I dreamed that Jesse Ventura stopped by my job to see how we did things. Man, he was a goddamn asshole (the bear corrected me — he’s a goddamn sexual tyrannosaurus). In my dream, I had seen him the week before at the State Fair. I was working there promoting our services, and got struck down with a sudden migraine. He tucked me under his arm like a football and got me out of there, which was pretty nice. But he didn’t seem to recognize me at the office, just kept giving me this “I am Big Man, you are Little Secretary” smirk, which I think is just his face, maybe.
I ran into him in the break room. He was staring at the contents of the fridge making bum bum bum noises and stroking his bald head. “You know, there’s a co-op across the street,” I said, “they have pretty good sandwiches.” He smirked heartily, then pulled out one of my co-worker’s lunches. “I brought my own lunch, but thanks, that’s cute.” I ignored him, started making myself some tea. In my dream, the making of my tea was a very intense ritual that I had perfected over years. Specific temperature of the water, perfect blend of hot and cold, the right quantity, the right time frame, it was all set. I got it all going, then turned my back for just a second to say hi to my boss, whose lunch he had taken. I was trying to gesture meaningfully to her about her pilfered carrots, and she was giving an odd look behind my shoulder. I turned around and saw Jesse Ventura backpedaling away from my tea, which was only half-full.
“Do you drink tea, Mr. Ventura?” I asked politely.
“I fuckin’ hate the stuff.”
I went about refilling my tea, going through the whole ritual again. Turning my back for just a moment to wash my hands, I turned back around to find half my tea gone, and the glass filled up with ice. Jesse Ventura was humming and looking at his nails.
Seriously, what a dick.
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