Under the best of circumstances, I'm not what you would call a "chipper" person. I know that comes as a shock to some of you, who come here to read about bunnies and rainbows and whiskers on kittens (it couldn't be you came here because you searched for "horny sex whore" now could it?)
But lately, I can feel the violence growing inside of me, boiling beneath the surface. It's just a matter of time before it explodes and things get bloody. If this blog suddenly ceases to exist, you know that I finally snapped, and am spending the next 20 years in a maximum security prison somewhere with my cell-mate and new life partner Buelah, who is doing 15 years for knifing the person who stole the last carton of chocolate chocolate chunk from her cart at the Piggly Wiggly.
You think I would be in a BETTER mood, since my bitter rival here at work, Sharon, who you may have read about in an earlier post of mine, gave notice and walked out of my life forever. Sharon will no longer vibrate my cubicle walls with her cackling and sneezing and overall obnoxious attitude. She will no longer infest my department with her evil gossip and whispering which stem from her need to be the center of attention because deep down she knows that no one can stand her.
But the way the universe works is sinister. There is a balance it needs to maintain of good and evil for it to function properly. You can't just take an evil force like Sharon away and replace her with a normal person. The earth's axis would tip and the sky would open up because the balance would be disturbed. So when Sharon left, instead of the peace I've been longing for, I got "Inga."
Inga actually didn't replace Sharon. Sharon is not going to be replaced because, let's face it, outside of gossiping and being loud and leading the company cheer, Sharon really didn't DO anything. No, Inga came to replace someone else. And she came with a song in her heart and a bounce in her step.
Inga is young and perky. And Inga sings. I'm not talking about the normal "humming under your breath" singing that comes when you hear that song on the radio on your way to work that you just can't get out of your head.
I'm talking Broadway, top of your lungs, "listen to me aren't I wonderful" singing. Incessant, persistent, RELENTLESS singing. She'll sing at the copy machine, sing at her desk, sing when she hands you a file folder, sing about handing you the file folder. It's like a bad American Idol audition, only you can't turn off the TV to escape.
Inga sings like we are blessed to hear her sing. I thinks she fancies herself as an undiscovered Whitney Houston (before she became a crack whore.) I'm almost waiting for her to tell us we need to pay for the show, because that's how good she thinks she is.
It's not that she's the worst singer I've ever heard. She's just not good. Her voice is kind of child-like and a little off key. And it's just so freakin' LOUD. It also has the effect, the longer you have to hear it, of causing your nervous system to seize up. I'll be sitting at my desk, trying to ignore it, when all of a sudden my motor functions just completely stop. It's like my body is shutting down to try to protect itself.
And, if that's not bad enough, Inga also SKIPS. Full on, hair-swinging, 6-year-old girl-like skipping, which she does, of course, AS she sings. I see her frequently bouncing by my cubicle and I think about how cool it would be to place some sort of obstacle in her path - one that she wouldn't notice until it was too late - causing her to trip and skip her face off the rug, possibly even leaving a nasty rug burn on her nose, forehead and chin. Yah ... that would be SOOOOO COOL.
On top of all this of course, her name is INGA and she has an accent. Perfect.
I just don't understand how anyone can think it is normal to sing and dance AT work, unless of course, they are a Rockette. This is corporate America damnit! You aren't allowed to be happy enough to sing or skip! What the hell is wrong with you?
And what does she feel is so fucking GREAT as to break out in song?! Did that purchase order bring her so much joy she just couldn't contain herself? Were those new manila file folders just the thing she needed to make her life meaningful and complete?
Luckily, I don't have to talk to Inga. While we work maybe 20 feet apart, her job does not coincide in any way with mine. So for the last two weeks, I've successfully tried to just avoid her, as physical contact may prove deadly.
But yesterday she had the NERVE to say hello to me - in a sing-song voice of course. Because I didn't want to seem like the office bitch, which I am, I tried to muster a hello back. It kind of grunted out, though, like I had just expelled something painful. And the look on my face must have been equally as constipated, because my friend, who was standing next to me, muffled a laugh.
I'm afraid if she says hello to me again, we're going to have to have a "discussion" - one that I imagine will go like this:
ME: "Um Inga, we need to have a talk."
INGA: (to the theme of the "Sound of Music") "I'd love to talk to you, if I can do it to muuuuu-ssss-iiiiic."
ME: "Well, you see, Inga, that's the issue. It's your constant perky singing. It's going to have to stop."
INGA: (to the tune of "Stop! In the Name of Love") "Stop! But I love to sing .... don't try to break my heart ... Think it o-o-ver ..."
ME: Inga, your heart will not be the first thing on your body I will break if you don't cut this singing shit out. And I mean now. This is work. There is NO reason to sing at work. Have the decency to look degraded and depressed, like the rest of us."
INGA: (To the theme from "Footloose" while she skips): "But everyone needs to cut loose - footloose, kick off those Sunday shoes ..."
ME: (kicking her in the shins) "Cut that CRAP OUT, you crazy bitch! No singing, and NO DANCING! Don't you realize that not only is it inappropriate, but you SUCK at it?"
INGA: (To the tune of "Don't worry, Be Happy.") "But let me tell you about a song I wrote, you can sing it with me note for note ... "
ME: (Grabbing Inga by the throat) Inga ... this is the way it is going to work. You will not sing. You will not dance. You will not talk to me either - because quite frankly, I hate you. In fact, if you could just shut the fuck up for the rest of your life and just sit at your desk and do your damned job quietly like the rest of us, that would be great. Cause if you don't, I may have to rip your vocal chords out with my bare hands and break your ankles to ensure that you never skip again."
INGA: (sputtering under her breath to the Boy George tune): "Do you really want to hurt me?"
ME: "Yes ... yes I really do."