Note to any and all coworkers, now and present:

[thejunipertree]

Please don't attempt to relate to me. It's just not going to work. Especially if we are from different planets, which we invariably are.

her: Oh wow! Where did you get your boots?
me: Fetishes Boutique. *grin*
her: Is that on South Street?
me: *inwardly cringing* No. It's not.
her: I've never heard of it before. What is it?
me: It's a SEX SHOP. They sell vibrators and whips and boots that are meant to be polished with someone's tongue.
her: Oh, that's cool. You know, I might dress like a dork for work. But, my boyfriend's in a band. (yes, those are her exact words.)

Your boyfriend's in a band and...what?

Your boyfriend's in a band and he shares you with the roadies?
Your boyfriend's in a band and you wear a chainmail bra?
Your boyfriend's in a band and the band calls you "Three Input Woman"?

I want to clue people in on something. And it's a big something.
Just because you are either (a.) in a band or (b.) screwing someone in a band does not automatically grant you status of HIPSTER COOL DADDY-O.

To be quite frank, most of the guys I know who are in bands are fucking dorks. And their girlfriends? Well. They're fucking dorks, too.

(didja geddit? didja? they're fucking dorks! hahahaha! I slay me.)

This co-worker is a nice girl. She really is. I don't mind her breathing the same air as me, which is a rarity. But, for the love of hairspray and pyrotechnics...DON'T attempt to relate to me using your boyfriend's Poison cover band.

Yes.
My name is Tara.
And I'm an elitist snob.

I'm a goth, after all. ;P

Comments

[bluemoonbaby.livejournal.com]

i'd appreciate if you'd keep poison out of this....

[meetzemonsta.livejournal.com]

ROCK OUT WITH YOUR COCK OUT!