Heaven Is an Uninterrupted Lunch Break

By Jamie Bailey

 

It’s about that time of day again. I leisurely walk to my favorite (and only) market near my workplace, Trader Joe’s.The time leading up to my walk is fantastic. No one needs me for that half hour leading up to that mythical period of time called “lunch.”

I return to my desk, open up the goods, hold a piece of mediocre sushi up to my lips, and…

In strolls Horny Old Guy.* He waltzes into the office like a resurrected Jesus Christ. He wants needs everyone in the office to know he’s there. He approaches my desk and begins to rummage through my shopping bag filled with items unappetizing to him. You see, he criticizes my food every single day.  Obviously because my lunch is everyone else’s business. But today he did something he has never done before. He saw past the dark chocolate-covered shortbread cookies (thank God), and asks in his obnoxious, nasally voice, “Spare a banana for your ol’ pal, will ya?” In my head I say, “Spare me your bullshit, asshole.” But I let him have the banana. In reality, it was like sixteen cents at Trader Joe’s. Not a huge loss. But it’s just the idea that thinks he can invite himself to my groceries that bothers me. The market is literally a block away!

He finally leaves with the banana, and I am back to my sushi. Then Typical Computer Illiterate Baby Boomer** frantically runs to me. My mouth is full. My face is bitchy. “Please, Jesus, do not let this be technical. I swear to You, Jesus, if I have to teach someone else how to copy and paste I’ll—”

TCIBB: I hate to bother you while you’re eating, but…

Me (in my mind): Do you? DO YOU? BECAUSE YOU DO IT EVERY FUCKING DAY.

TCIBB: I need an envelope. Where do you keep those?

 

What’s odd about this behavior is that the rest of the day, most of my co-workers treat me like a speck of dust on the wall. But as soon as there is food within a 15-foot radius of my body, they know. Lord do they know. Then I become a hot commodity.

Jamie can’t eat! There is mail to be sent, copies to be made! Documents to be faxed! Those really difficult tasks that only Jamie can do!

By now you’re probably thinking, “Wow, you dumb ass. Just go somewhere else to eat.” Here is my response to that: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA YEAH RIGHT.

I do try to eat in other places. I mostly buy fresh food from the market to save money. So that leaves me trying to find a place within the office to eat. Sometimes I eat in the conference room (that does not stop people from interrupting me though), but when that is being used by meetings I usually stay at my desk. Yesterday I did try something new and sneaky though. There is a secret office adjacent to the conference room, visible from my normal desk. No one ever looks in there. I took my “lunch” in there yesterday, and saw several people looking for me. One person in particular, my Nemesis,*** paced around the area near my desk, panicking because my ass was not in that chair. I could see it from my hiding spot. I shrank into the wall, watching my Nemesis as he circled the office like a hawk, looking for me. I was laughing such an evil laugh inside. Muahaha. Fuck you. Send your own goddamn fax!

I fantasize about the day that I can experience this thing called lunch. I dream about a time when I can eat possibly good sushi (not mediocre) without having to start someone’s Task Manager or without simply getting up from my seat and leaving my food.**** But I don’t think that day will ever come. I don’t consider my job to be that important now, yet people cling to me. I can’t imagine what my lunch break will be like when I am—dare I say—important.

I can’t fathom a time when I will be able to eat lunch in peace; when I can eat a real meal in the middle of the day. Maybe that will be part of my special heaven. To me heaven would be an uninterrupted lunch break.

 

*There. I said it. I’m not sorry.

**Typical Computer Illiterate Baby Boomer is married to Horny Old Guy. It’s a match made in hell.

***A real tried-and-true asshole

****Now you’re probably thinking, “My God, stop bitching and get a better job.” I’m working on it! For the sake of my career AND blood pressure.

June 3, 2016 by jamiesvetlana Categories: comedy, satire, UncategorizedTags: 9-5 life, god bless, kill me, lunch break, office life, trying to eat, work sucks Leave a comment

What 2 do when ur brother is a fuckboi

Translation: What to do when your brother is a fuckboy

First let’s define fuckboy. I’ll oblige you with a little urban dictionary.

“A manipulating dick who does whatever it takes to benefit him, regardless of who he screws over.” “The fuckiest of the fucks, a “fuckboy” is the lowest possible form of the vile, degenerate waste pouring from the proverbial asshole of society.”

It’s hard to place those harsh words with “my brother” in a sentence, but let’s be real. A fuckboy is a fuckboy and must stand corrected. It may be hard to catch your brother being a fuckboy because usually he cleans up his act around you. But sometimes that fuckboy within makes his appearance in your angelic presence. Sister, it’s time to take a stand and turn his shit around. He’s probably fucking around with some precious gem similar to you, and you have to make sure his fuckboy ways don’t ruin any lives. Sisters are effective fuckboy eliminators because these dudes are forced to see you. A fuckboy can run away from his bitches, but he can’t run away from his #1 bitch; his sister.

It’s hard enough to deal with a fuckboy when he’s not related to you and he’s trying to make you his victim. But it’s a whole other fuckballgame when you’re related to one. Or if you grew up in the same house as a fuckboy. God bless.

You’ve probably questioned your identity. If my bro is a fuckboy, am I… the female equivalent of a fuckboy? (Or if you’re a dude… Am I a fuckboy too?) If that’s the case, God help ya assholes.

While reading these solutions, always remember… Together we can fight the fuckboy.

Drop the labels. Effective immediately.

Don’t refer to him as your brother. Fuckboys hate labels. At a party/bar/general social gathering, say, “This is my…. Max. This is Max.” Fuckboys never use labels to describe anyone, especially girls. Everyone is a “friend” to a fuckboy. So don’t admit the fucker is related to you and see if he gets it.

Be vague. Be very vague.

Trick him by asking him if he wants to “hang out.” Do not specify what hanging out means. And then do something questionable that he hates. Like, force him to do yoga or bake cookies. Fuckboiz do a lot of “hanging out,” and no woman is every sure what that means. So beat him at his own game, sister!

Communicate via SnapChat. Don’t you dare send him a real text! God knows when he would respond to that anyway. If he sends you any texts, be sure to ignore them for at least ten hours before responding. You wouldn’t want to communicate with him conveniently!

After you drop the labels and make things vague, he’s gonna be all like, “Shit, sis, we need to set some boundaries.” After you fake him out and establish that you think boundaries are dumb, tell him you’re not looking for a “serious” sibling “relationship.” And then start talking about all your other brothers. (Even if you don’t have any more!) He will probably begin to question your sanity if you begin rambling on about brothers you don’t have. Which is great! Finally, you have brought to light his ridiculous, selfish fuckboi behavior!

At this point, feel free to finally bring up the “f” word with him. Tell him you’re worried about his fuckboy status, and that your cray antics were only to help him realize what he has become. Depending on how close you are/were, he may or may not call you a crazy bitch. Which is okay too. Because I’d rather be a crazy bitch than a fuckboy any day!

United we stand against fuckboys.

June 17, 2015June 19, 2015 by jamiesvetlana Categories: comedy, satireTags: comedy, fuckboys, sarcasm, siblings Leave a comment