Small talk is the devil. Scratch that, small talk is the devil's pierced dick trying to penetrate you. Maybe it's because of my anti-social tendencies or the lack of caring (or knowledge) of every day things that people at work like to talk about in the elevator. So yeah, gas prices are up but what the hell difference does it make if I'm talking about it with a forty-something "administrative assistant" in a 2-floor elevator.
I avoid the elevator now whenever I see a group of chatty bitches waiting and giggling and chattin' up a storm. Wooh, do those ladies love to chat up a storm. It's like every day, a category 5 chit-chat hurricane blows in through the office I intern at, knocking down file cabinets along with my ability to function when someone asks me about school.
Also, it doesn't help whenever people ask me patronizing questions like who I think will win American Idol or what kind of music I listen to. Yes, I am the youngest person that works in the office but that doesn't mean I WATCH GODDAMN HANNAH MONTANA. That show isn't even on anymore.
So to all the fanny-pack-wearing, sun-burnt-flaunting, morbidly obese waddlers that call themselves women I work with... Yeah, I guess the weather is nice today.
