Two analysts were standing next to my desk here at work the other night and I realized that they both seem to have a pretty skewed perception of me.
“You’d never be able to hang out with Erin,” the one analyst said to the other.
“Why? Just because I don’t like scary movies?” she asked.
He gave her an exasperated sigh. “Everything Erin likes is scary, though.”
I’m sitting here, trying to butt in to this thoroughly engaging conversation about me, but they ignored me.
“We both like hockey,” she remembered. “We could go to a Pens game!”
“Yeah, but then she’d kill you afterward,” he said, and she reluctantly agreed that no, we would never be able to hang out outside of work.
In office sea monkey news, I ordered some accessories for the guys a few weeks ago. Frighteningly, I had to literally cut out an order form and send a check to some ambiguous-sounding company in Maryland. This was after I spent nearly an entire night at work scouring the Internet in search of easier, more legit-sounding ways to purchase Sea Diamonds and Banana Treat.
I just checked my bank statement online and the check was cashed on March 14th and if I don’t get my shit soon I’m going to freak the fuck out. And then my SEA MONKEYS are going to freak the fuck out. And then my co-workers are going to say, “Wait…we have sea monkeys? Oh shit, I forgot about those fuckers!”
I’m not sure if it’s comforting or terrifying to know that this was the same way I had to order supplies for my sea monkeys when I was 12.
It is now 2011. The term mail order should be a page in a history book by now.