i'm just glad i don't keep a sledge hammer under my desk.
i was on a tight deadline. writing an important news release about our company's merger with "another" company which is actually "another" company because that other company is no other than our company too. yes, i like using the words "another" and "other" several times in one sentence. and yes, our company has agreed to enter into a defacto merger with no other than itself. it's like telling someone you're getting married. you hire a wedding planner. you send out all the invitations. and on the day itself, you show up in front of the priest with a life-sized wax replica of yourself. in a white gown. what an ass.
so there i was. deep in thought. writing. and in times like these, working on a really tight deadline and i'm focused and shit, there are actually three things that could really tick me off:
(1) i hate being stared at,
(2) i hate my work being stared at and
(3) i hate listening to moby
one or a combination of any of the three could spell danger to anyone, especially if i'm holding a blunt object.
anyway, so i was writing. then suddenly from out of nowhere this four year-old kid shows up. what the fuck is a kid doing in my office at 8:30 in the morning? apparently one of my officemates decided it was cool to bring her little creature at work. and she also decided that it was cool for her kid to hangout in my office instead of hers. fuck! does my door read day care, bitch?!?
don't get me wrong. i rarely hate kids. honest. i have two of my own. but i make sure they're at their best behavior everytime we're at somebody else's place. this kid, i assume, was not taught that way.
he went behind my desk and started bugging me. he stared at me. he stared at my monitor. and he looked a lot like moby. yeah, like he's on chemo therapy or something.
"what are you doing?"
"i'm writing something really important. why don't you go back to your mom."
"what are you writing?"
"something really important. please go back to your mom's office."
"are you writing a story? is it about samurai jack?"
"no, it's not about samurai jack. would you like a paper and a pencil? here. go sit there and draw something."
"but it's no fun drawing without crayons."
i didn't answer. i can feel my face turn red. i'm starting to lose focus. i'm starting to hum fatboy slim's weapon of choice. i'm starting to...
"you're fat! hahahaha! you're really fat and you have fat fingers too! hahahaha!!!"
"okay, that's it. get out of my office! now!"
he starts to cry. or at least, i thought.
"i'm sorry. but if you could just please go to your mom. please."
"you're mean. i'm telling you to my mom."
"good. anything to get you out of here."
that's when he came near me and kicked me in the shin. fuck! i can't even begin to tell you how much that stings! fuck! and i can't rub my shin because i'm fat and i can't reach it even if i'm sitting down. and it really fucking hurts. in fact, so bad that i wished his father masturbated in the shower instead four years ago.
"you fucking kid!!! i'm going to choke you til your eyes pop out!"
"hahaha! you can't catch me! hahahaha!"
then i gave him the finger. that did it. he stopped laughing. but his eyes grew in amazement. he went out of my office quietly.
i, on the other hand, went on to do my thing even with a swollen shin. twenty minutes later, the kid was running in circles at the lobby screaming, "fucking kid! fucking kid! fucking kid!" with both of his hands raised and both his middle fingers sticking out. shit. i'm fucked.
lunch at the cafeteria, everybody looked at me weird. again.
seriously, i will pay some people not to have kids. i mean, the least they can do is discipline them. or not bring them to the office because some people, like me, actually work at the office. if they can't do that, then i suggest they put 'em on a leash or something.
i'm just glad i don't keep a sledge hammer under my desk. because i could've smashed that kid's spine with it. or he could've cracked my shin with it.
fuck! he really looks like moby.
i'm out.
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