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Art Colony: the b*tches at the front desk
Friday, May 13, 2005
› by victoria
the bitches at the front desk of the library: in the strictest sense of "bitches" being perjorative, not laudatory. Not in the "Bitch" meaning of kicking ass like Sigourney Weaver in Aliens or the Cleopatra-manipulative sense of the term or even in the Red Dwarf "You're my bitch!" sense. But in the sense of "Bitch" meaning unnecessarily unpleasant, antagonistic, and acerbic. Getting overly upset over nothing at all.
FACT, oh crazy bitches at the front desk:
YOU WORK IN A LIBRARY. NOT IN FORT KNOX.
You'd think they were trying to advance to the level of "Guardians of the Ancient Temple of Osiris" or something. Try and weigh my heart against that feather, you female Anubis-wannabe.
"Where's your ID?" they scream.
"It's right here. The magnetic strip's just not working." I reply.
They're all up in my face at 7:45 AM in the morning.
Is it because they are angry at their jobs that they wish to take it out on me? Do I infuriate them somehow?
I know I am deviant.
Last night Biff and I talked for a long time. I asked him, when we move out to the West Coast someday, will I fit in? And Biff said that he never really blended in California, even though they expect unusual people sometimes there. He said that the Marquette B.-types are the ones with all the money (surprise, surprise) and that he has never fit in anywhere.
I don't fit in anywhere either, so I guess we're just 2 oddballs that are happy together.
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