Imagined things

Everyone has a different method to making pasta. My personal method is to bring the water to a violently rolling boil before adding the pasta. Then, once the water returns to a boil I put a lid on the pot and take it off heat and let the pot sit for ten minutes uninterrupted. This usually produces perfect al dente pasta. Obviously, the most important step in this process is boiling the water. It is the heat that transforms the pasta from one thing to another. Water will start to boil at 212° fahrenheit. People, on the other hand, reach their boiling point much faster. And unlike pasta, they are rarely transformed into something softer and better.

There seems to be a rift happening in the restaurant. It was subtle at first but is now unmistakable. There is a clearly defined, and it irks me to use the terminology, clique forming. And the one thing they all seem to have in common is some bizarre vendetta against me. The recipe for this is mostly straightforward. There is miscommunication at some point then there is resentment. And the resentment, when given enough heat, will start to expand like yeast. It bakes slowly over time to become a general dislike. It is decorated with sprinkles of offhand comments and snide remarks. It's cut into pieces and spread around. It's displayed for all to see.

There is something palpable about it. I have been on shaky ground for a while with one of our hostesses, so much so that it no longer seems logical to blame her hormones or my personality. Plain and simple, we're on the outs. We're on each other's shit list. And I could just sense it. What is usual just playful teasing back and forth felt mean spirited. I don't dance around issues like this. I confront. I went right up to her and told her she was being especially snippy with me today. She made a noncommittal noise. I asked what I did this time and she walked away. Later I asked if she was going to tell me why she was being snippy or should I just use my imagination. She suggested I do the latter.

It is at this point that my cunty-ness threshold has been reached. I'm getting all the stank attitude I can take. I'm done with the obnoxious pandering for attention and little cliques at work and the stupid jokes. I have been alienated my entire life for one reason or another and I certainly don't come to work to make friends or fit in. I'm there to make my paper, and I'm good at doing just that. And unlike the weak person I was in high school I am now  a much fiercer breed of the same animal. I can take more of a beating and it makes me stronger, sassier, and dare I say more attractive. The shittier people are to me the more determined I become to stay my whole shift and absorb more abuse because I'm like Godzilla. The things people do to try and destroy me only succeed in making me stronger and more ravenous than ever.

And in case you think this rant is in some way righteous or lionizing, think again, because I do not use my powers for good. I am not a benevolent creature. I am the sweetest person in the world until someone crosses me. Then I am a cruel, inconsiderate, and a wholly obnoxious creature that thrives off of moments, however short, of making other people miserable. The people who cross me are insignificant to me. They are cute, sweet, adorable kittens standing in front of me and I just want to step on their tails and hold my foot down. Their remarks and passive aggressive behavior are minor annoyances to me, like tiny black baby ants. They themselves are insignificant ant hills that I will pour sickly sweet lemonade on.

I am not playing with these bossy heifers any more. I'm over them, I'm over their behavior, and I'm over their bad haircuts. I do not need to act out the way that they do because I have something that they don't: no, not just my wildly unpopular blog that all of twenty people now read, but my ability to mentally will them into oblivion using the sword and shield of my overactive and over analytical mind. I am clearly put on this planet to outshine these talentless peasants who spend their days suckling the teat of mediocrity and trying to take down zealous flaming magical creatures such as myself that are imbued with such intellectual gifts honed by years of alienation and silent imagined vengeance.

You want me to use my imagination to figure out why you've got a stank attitude? This is where my imagination leads me: a bottomless hole of darkness lit only by embers of fury. I mentally empower myself with almost cartoonish fervor and, exacerbate every tiny action of yours into heinous crimes agains my being. That is where my imagination goes.

Obviously, I'm beyond my boiling point tonight. I'm at the point where pasta starts to break down and turn into mush. I've been boiling so long I'm basically porridge.

My disclaimer: I would like to point out that, in the spirit of hyperbole, the majority of this blog was written in a completely facetious tone--even more so than my usual hyper-exaggerated writing. No actual people, only imagined ones, were harmed in the conception of this blog.