Pantry Life
I think I’ve established by now that I don’t like people. I’m especially aware of this at lunchtime, when I go to retrieve food and prepare it.
There are three pantries nearby, and I alternate between each of them in an attempt to confuse any would be assassins.
I should be more worried about my co-workers, I think. That vast and immortal army of brain-dead, cheerful, chattering, Christ-happy monsters. Microwaving a plate of food is not an open invitation to fucking talk and smile at me. Are you a part of my tribe? I don’t think so. I may know who you are, but I don’t see you in the cave at night. I don’t see you defending the fire. I don’t see you keeping watch for the fucking mischievous yet lovable baby dinosaur that’ll eventually be adopted by a doe-eyed child.
I’m constantly ducking around one of the pantries because I’m supposed to steer clear of this one bitch who complained about me. I visit the pantry on occasion, because I like to at least keep some small hope alive that I’ll get to walk in while said bitch is choking on a piece of chicken.
What? No, I don’t understand. Are you choking? Say something if you can’t breathe. Look, if you don’t say something, I’ll assume that you can breathe…
I avoid the second pantry most days because the co-workers in that area are all piss freaks. They talk endlessly about the health effects of drinking their own urine and how best to harvest it throughout the day. For about three months, I thought they were joking. They aren’t. I’d relate more details, but I’m afraid that means I’ll have to throw up. Let’s just say I don’t store anything in the fridge over there.
The pantry that’s dedicated to my department is fine, because we’re all defeated and exhausted over here. But I hate the extreme negativity so common in the wage slave world. That snarling, bitter hatred against a boss who could walk in at any second.
I’ve long threatened to just move into my office. Hotplate, coffee machine, my old dorm room fridge, microwave… We’re specifically forbidden from having those appliances in our offices, which is amusing. That means that people once tried to do that… And, in fact, there’s one office on the fourth floor with a private fridge. Why? Because it’s been grandfathered in. It’s the last surviving personal appliance in an office from the days before there was a policy in place.
“When it breaks,” the board of managers assured all 600 employees (who didn’t give a fuck), “we won’t allow the owner to replace it.”
The Powers That Be get very concerned about stuff like that, but not about Kaiser misplacing our medical records. Maybe I’m confused about what’s important in life. I’m willing to accept that. Some schmoe on the fourth floor using a small fridge at his desk is wrong… Kaiser giving away our identities is good… Right?
They should check, though. That little personal fridge might be filled with jars of piss. Actually, in that context, I am concerned about personal refrigerators. I certainly wouldn’t let anyone over at Piss Pantry have one. They’ll be guzzling their urine all day. (I’ve been informed that you can get addicted to the “good feelings” received when consuming mass quantities of urine.)
I also want to know: What the fuck are my co-workers heating up in the microwaves? Do they collect dog diarrhea and then microwave it for 15 minutes each day? Because that’s what it smells like. Either that or the ubiquitous small of ultra-buttered popcorn. What’s for lunch, Co Worker #719842? Oh! Five fucking bags of popcorn. Nice.
Not kidding, either. One of my coworkers eats five bags of slimy popcorn each day for lunch. Pops them all in a row, then scurries back to her desk and devours every kernel, even if it’s not popped.
I sometimes linger on these images during my commute. Which is why I’m the only person who cheers when the Metro breaks down and we’re stranded on the tracks for an hour. A train has derailed at Fort Totten? YES!