Guess what? I am now a bonafide white collar worker. It’s disgusting. I am disgusted. Why is it disgusting? I will tell you why.
I love what I study. I love law. Well, okay, I tolerate it. I’m not like those kids who memorize Civil Code articles and walk around in a suit thinking they are all that, just because they make more copies at the office than they actually make it with real, live girls. Yet, shits and giggles aside, my “professional” life is more unsatisfactory than, say, my sex life.
First of all, the girls that work there have this super cool club that I was not invited too. It’s so fucking girly. They talk about guys, but in the way you used to talk about how H-O-T Chad Michael Murray was; and makeup, because contouring is apparently the new Jesus; and mysogonist teachers that give them passing grades because they’re all so freaking beautiful; and douchebag bosses that don’t give them handouts because they’re mostly mysoginist pricks; etc. I love these conversations; I’m innately bitchy. I haven’t felt this excluded since I was a cottage-cheese-eating first grader (other girls had absolutely no motive to trade their lunches with me, so, therefore, I was basically nonexistent).
But today was different. Today, I was invited for coffee. I felt like that weird girl that’s finally invited to the party and transforms herself into a beautiful, beautiful princess. Stay tuned for “The Devils Wear Zara”. No, seriously, it was great. By the end of the day I wanted to hold their hands and sing Kumbaya.
Number two, being new at the office is like being those impulse-buy shoes that really don’t go with anything else in the closet. That’s me. I’m just rotting away at an unforgiving cubicle, which only reminds me of how utterly useless I am.
I get it. No one wants to show the new kid how everything is done. People are making well-earned money, and I’m just sitting at my desk, cashing in actual dollars and cents, because, all of a sudden, I became an expert printer (The name’s Adobe, Sabrina Adobe).
At last, the end of this post. I’d like the cherry on top of this painful essay to be something surprising:
I’m a little too shy when I’m out of my comfort zone. People who know me think this is a joke. It’s not. Though I walk around my school like I fucking own it, when I’m not the Queen Bitch of an establishment, I lose that charisma people learn to love.
Don’t get my wrong, I’ve tried to flaunt my dark humor at the office, but now people think I’m completely bizarre. Apparently sarcasm is no longer a thing, and saying that every kid’s dream is to become a heroin addict is not a work-appropriate statement.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll get invited to another coffee run. Maybe, my relationship with the girls will transform into a bitchmance and we’ll have lunch tomorrow. I’m crossing my fingers and hoping for the best, while carrying around the disposable coffee cup I bought at 11 am.