I don’t often post about personal things. However, today I am making an exception.
There are things that I consider to be my personal truths. Other people may have these in common with me, or they may not, but they are things that are true for me and I both acknowledge and accept these things. In fact, I find my life flows smoother when I work with my personal truths instead of against them.
For example: I have the attention span of a gnat. Plan accordingly.
I am ridiculously easy to distract. Add to this my next personal truth: I am a procrastinator. I know in my head, down to the last 30 minutes, how much time I need to do something and I will wait until I have met my time threshold before starting any task. I do this without fail. I do this regardless of task. I do this regardless of whether I intend to start right away or not. These are dangerous truths to combine. However, because I am self-aware, I can work with these truths and still be a reasonably productive individual. This brings me to today’s personal truth and the reason for posting.
Staying alone in my house exponentially reduces the likelihood I will kill someone.
Ok, to be completely honest, I would most likely never actually kill someone but I will be thinking about it very, very hard. This is the beauty of being a writer. I can go home and kill all the stupid people in deliciously brutal ways without wearing an orange jumpsuit. Because the bulk of humanity pisses me off with alarming regularity, I find it best to avoid the bulk of humanity by staying at home and trying to avoid the Paws of Doom (Smeagol, as it happens, is aptly named and will probably be the subject of a future post).
Now, from time to time the Universe takes it upon itself to remind us of these truths. As much as I enjoy avoiding the masses, I also enjoy eating and having things like toilet paper which means I must venture out of my home and go to work. Anyone who is a friend on Facebook will tell you how much <sarcasm> I love my job </sarcasm>. Still, my loathing of people is dwarfed by my love of cheese and pie (and sometimes those things combined if it’s cheesecake) so I endure.
Today the Universe decided I needed a friendly reminder.
I got to campus early and decided to take advantage of my free time by grabbing some food. I handle stupid better when I’m full (working with my personal truths, not against them). I went to the cafe in the building where I work and was told that they don’t serve lunch until 11 am. It was 9:30, so there’s that. They were serving breakfast and would I like something from the breakfast menu? This is actually a little more polite than the way it was put to me. Now, my main problem with breakfast menus, in general, is that I am allergic to eggs. I can (but shouldn’t) eat things with eggs in them (hives, you know, and some places you just can’t scratch with any semblance of dignity), but I cannot eat whole eggs unless I’m wanting to impersonate Linda Blair from The Exorcist. Death would be kinder than a plate full of scrambled eggs. I told the woman working behind the counter, “I’m allergic to eggs, so I’ll just wait until you serve lunch.”
“Well, the eggs are separate, so you don’t have to eat them.”
Since I don’t make it a habit of paying for things that will make me violently ill if I eat them, I passed. Of course, I also told her this. There may have been snark involved. I’m just being honest. Annoyed, I arrived at my computer lab 30 minutes before my shift and was prepared to play some Bingo until I needed to clock in (Don’t judge me!). Instead, the girl working the shift before me needed to leave so I happily clocked in early (hooray for TP!) and began my shift.
At the strike of 11, I finished up some last minute tasks, grabbed my purse, and made the quick jaunt upstairs to partake of the cafe’s lunch menu. Clearly, the universe thought I wasn’t paying attention. What should have been a 5-10 trip ended up taking 20 minutes. The woman running the register didn’t know how to run the register, so every transaction took awhile. Now, the cafe is set up similar to the restaurant Chipotle, where you choose your ingredients, they plop it in a to-go container, and you’re all set.
Woman: Do you want corn?
Woman: <spoons corn all over my entree>
Me: Or I guess corn would be fine.
Woman: Sour cream and guacamole?
Me: Sour Cream.
Woman: <plops sour cream and guacamole on my entree>
Me: <look that most likely would resemble the look I would give if she plopped a scoop of baby poop on my plate>
Woman: Oh, you didn’t want guacamole?
Me: No, no I didn’t, but it’s fine. (Totally wasn’t fine, but I didn’t have time to stand there and dick around over guacamole)
Woman: I can scrape it off if you want.
Me: No, it’s fine.
Woman: Ok, I won’t charge you for it.
Cashier: Do you want a drink?
Cashier: Do you want a drink?
Cashier to Woman: Does she want a drink?
Woman: No, she doesn’t want a drink.
I get it, Universe. Message received. Please stop now. The stupid is making me itchy. Or it could possibly be my earlier proximity to scrambled eggs.