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Thursday, December 16, 2010

Mr. Sunshine

I work in an office that is quite similar to that of the TV show The Office except that none of the funny or interesting stuff happens in mine.  As a result, I spend most of my time feeling pretty terrible and the rest of my time getting drunk.  This adds to, or perhaps is responsible for, the hazy misery spiral wherein I feel terrible, drink to feel better, feel worse the next morning, and go to work.  What I'm saying is: I'm an idiot.
That aside, even before the cycle of suffering that is my current life began, I had a fairly solid and well-deserved reputation for being a cranky person on days that aren't my birthday, Christmas, and Super-Sleep-in Saturdays.  The outcome is this:
General cantankerousness + job-related awful times = Bad Mister Falcon.*
Luckily, I'm not at all adept at hiding my mean nature (nor do I care to, due to my mean nature), so most people have learned to approach me with a certain degree of caution.  Everyone, that is, save one special man.
I don't know when he appeared here, but it was long after my sentence began.  He works on the other side of the office, so I'm not forced to interact with him all the time.  But every time I go to the break room - EVERY FALCON TIME!!!! - he knows, and he scurries in there too.  It goes a little something like this:
Me, silently pouring scalding hot water into my tiny bowl from a spout that desperately wants to burn every one of my fingers.
Mr. Sunshine, smiling ear to ear: It's lunch time!  Yippee!**
Me, still carefully watching water spill onto my rice noodles to protect fingerprints: Yes.  Lunch.
Mr. Sunshine: Oh boy, that sure does look good!  Mmmmm mmmm!
Me, becoming visibly uncomfortable and trying to navigate my crazy-hot bowl into a microwave to ensure maximum danger potential: They are noodles.
Mr. Sunshine, who has decided that now is the time to retrieve something from the cabinets over the microwave and is awkwardly trying reach around, over, and through me: I sure do like noodles!  This one time I had noodles in a restaurant!  They sure were good, mmmm mmmm!
Me, on the brink of abandoning the noodle endeavor outright and running screaming from the break room: Yes.
<microwave dings>
Mr. Sunshine, still grinning that nightmare-inducing grin: Soup's on!!!  HEEE HEEEE!
Me, actually wincing to fight back murderous impulses: Grumble.
I then exit the break room as quickly as possible, inevitably sloshing skin-meltingly hot noodle juice onto my feet, into my shoes.  I welcome the pain, having lived through what I've just experienced.  No amount of pain can out-torment a few minutes with Mr. Sunshine.
I adjourn to my desk, where I sink back into my chair to snorfle lunch out of my tiny bowl and footwear.  All is as right with the world as it can be, and the noodles serve as a temporary salve to the wounds my misery cycle inflicts.  I take my time, often eating one long ricey strand at a time, savoring its salty goodness.  Upon finishing I'm downright chipper until I receive a soul shattering roundhouse from reality: I have to wash the tiny bowl.  I have to go back to the break room.  And I will, undoubtedly, have to face the grin once more.
It doesn't matter how long I wait to return to the break room.  Mr. Sunshine knows.  I creep around the corner, the theme to Mission: Impossible playing in my head.  I slither down the hall, silent as a serpent.  Eureka!  I've reached the sink and am grabbing the mildewed sponge when I hear it:
"Oh boy, was that a great meal or what?  I tell you, the only thing that would make that meal any better would've been some noodles!  Say, (slyly lifting his disturbingly bushy eyebrows) didn't someone in here have some noodles for lunch?"
Me: Uhm...
Mr. Sunshine, now using a voice used primarily by preschool and special ed teachers: Those were probably scrum-dumptious, eh?

At this point a generally black out due to blind rage, hatred, and revulsion.  I come to about an hour later, having miraculously made it back to my desk, and with no recollection of the events that got me there.  Sadly, they simply cannot be as violent as I would like them to be, because this same scenario befalls me at least once a week.

I work with the happiest damn person on the planet.  He is approximately 60 years old and works in IT.  He is never not smiling.

And I want to punch him as hard as I can.  In the soul.

* For those who do not understand this reference, please see and be enlightened by the following:
"Yippee-kay-yay, Mister Falcon”
'Nuff said.
**This blog post contains the word "Yippee" three times.  Take that, Mr. Sunshine.

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