Observation

Nobody here swears. I do not understand how it is possible to be around so many people performing so many frustrating tasks and never hear an explitive. It took me a while to notice this, but it became shockingly clear after a recent incident.

The soda machine (which I will no longer be using. Instead I will paronise the cafeteria, walking the half mile to brave the possibility of another DJ incident) first lied to me by telling me my selection was available when it was in fact sold out, then stole my money when I inserted more to upgrade my selection to a 20 oz. bottle.

As I was vigorously shaking the machine and peppering it's steel body with rapid kicks, an involuntary string of foul language was pouring from my mouth. When a stranger entered the room behind me, offering a nickel (which was the exact amount I was short. He had obviously decifered that from my filthy rantings), I felt oddly shamed.

Normally, nothing about my display of displeasure would have caused any feelings of remorse or humility. That's when it dawned on me. Nobody here swears. I felt like a pariah, some intellectually inferior slob whose simple-mindedness could only handle difficulties and frustration with savage, red-eyed fury.

Just another thing enforcing the feeling that I don't belong here.

the winds

Oh, you ripe, rotten bastard! From the far side of this cubicle you blanket the entire area in your foul fog, nonchalantly slurping soup. You silence conversations from across the room as the wind from your bowel causes people to lose concentration and frown, wrinkling their noses. Your furtive glances about do not go unnoticed, now that your flatulent nature has assaulted my nose several days running. I see your shameful smirk, that small facial tell betraying your odious stealth.

Oh! You henious criminal! You noxious mongrel! Oh! Oh! Again? Why?! How?!

Even wildlife would cower and slink from your putrid air. What nuclear fuel do you pump into that gut which causes such horrifying results? Canaries would keel over your vicinity, crows even. The man on my other side is covering the lower half of his face, leaving only his watering eyes visible. His productivity is reduced to nil as he focuses on breathing as shallowly as possible.

I hope this is just a passing gastrointestinal phenomena, some distress that will heal itself, and soon. Please, oh please...

Germ warfare

I sit here this morning with a sore throat, runny nose and dry cough, and I can't help but consider all the possible avenues through which germs may have come to me. Being a diligent hand-washer doesn't seem to suffice in these modern days of high contact.

Last week I passed the supply room where a woman pushing a cart loaded with letters and papers heaved a lung-full of air and sneezed a mighty cloud of fine mist all over them. She wiped some clinging spittle from her mouth and proceeded to sort the mail into all the employee folder-boxes.

I, thankfully, do not receive any paper mail. All transmissions to me are digitally scrubbed by a virus filter and deposited on a server, recovered without having to lay a finger on a single filthy surface save my own keyboard. I imagined what my reaction would have been like if it were necessary for me to riffle through those disease ridden documents. There is a box of nitrile gloves and face-masks near the press. Maybe the kitchen would have a set of tongs laying around.

Then, of course, last Thursday was Bunko at the Knights of Columbus, where 30-odd people sit around tables rolling dice, trading partners and conversations, all while sampling the variety of finger foods contributed to the pot-luck style snack table. Fingers are licked, dice blown upon, and microorganisms promenade from host to host.

However they came to me, courtesy dictates that I try my best to keep my germs to myself. I will duck under my desk to sneeze and slap away any hands that trespass upon my keyboard. Just like Needles the Inoculation Robot says, "Only you can prevent the next global pandemic."