As I have matured over the years like a well-ripened cheese I have come to the conclusion that I hate everybody.
Well maybe not absolutely everybody. But mostly everybody.
And maybe hate is a strong word. How about resent?
Okay – I strongly resent 99.9% of the population.
As someone who spent her formative years working in retail / admin /corporate hospitality – and is now an executive PA you’d think (after my many years of exposure to various aspects of mankind) I would have a great appreciation for the human experience. That I would be anthropological in my outlook on life. But in truth I spend 100% of my day inwardly rolling my eyes during interactions with other people.
Thinking about it, I guess I’m what you might call an “equal opportunity hater.” I don’t care about race, age, religion or sexual preference – I will dislike you regardless of all that.
Nobody believes me when I say I’m not a “people” person. Especially Mr Maybe, who always says I’m the “kindest” person he knows.
This depresses me, because quite frankly I’d rather be the sexiest person he knows. I mean, I doubt there has been a man alive who’s whispered provocatively in his girlfriends ear: “Oooh baby, you’re so KIND it makes me horny…”
Meh. I guess I’ll take it.
I can’t help thinking he’ll be in for a shock when I experience my impending psychotic break and eventually explode in a shower of tourettes-like swearing followed by running naked through the town centre. But there we go, that’s relationships for you. If you can’t have at least ONE psychotic break without being judged then you need to make good your exit my friend.
I understand this misconception though. After years of servitude I have developed this hospitality / client-facing façade as a coping mechanism. Only, I can’t shut it off. It’s like PTSD. The upside to this is I can cope with any situation without betraying how I actually feel at that moment in time. However, I think this façade has now become engrained in my personality in general. Maybe it doesn’t help that I’m English and middle class? Being repressed is probably in my DNA or something.
No matter how cheerfully I start my day with scented bubble baths or buddhist chanting the torture of public transport is enough to leave me seething as I reach either end of my commute. Most people seem to have NO spatial awareness. They will press against you, cut across you, push in front of you, blindly amble into you, stop right in front of you… They would probably even take a dump on you if they could get away with it.
I have OCD (actual OCD, not a mild dislike for things being out-of-order) – meaning I don’t like being repeatedly tapped / touched in general unless I have given an engraved invitation. With this in mind you can imagine how much I hate it when someone gets on the tube and their suitcase, handbag or shopping is tapping against me for the whole journey. Even if I scrunch up foetuslike to stop this from happening, the moron with the tappy bag happily expands to fill the microscopic bit of space between us and I still get their crap bumping and jabbing me over and over all the way to work.
When I’m stressed and my OCD gets really bad, I need to tap the floor or the nearest surface to hand the same number of times someone touches me. If I don’t do this compulsive counter-tap I get the gut feeling that something very bad will happen and it will be all my fault. Like an apocalypse. Or Kim Kardashian being crowned queen of the universe. And I will hate myself forever.
Next on the list of my biggest pet-commuter-hates (other than those graceless sub-humans who sneeze and cough without covering their mouths) would be jerks who passive-aggressively bustle against me and attempt to shove-in the queue for the escalator. Man, woman of child – I don’t care who you are. You know how to queue. So get to the back of the line before I cut you.
Another cause for resentment are the thoughtless bastards sat down on the tube, avoiding eye contact regardless of an elderly person, pregnant woman or physically impaired individual in need of a seat. I really hope the favour is returned one day when they too have been ravaged by age or the strains of childbearing and have hemorrhoids the size of golf balls dangling out of their bottom.
You see? Under this sweet, well spoken exterior I’m a very grumpy person.
An old friend once told me that if I actually said what I was really thinking nobody would fuck with me. Which is probably true. But I would also be an unemployed social pariah.
What I say v’s what I’m actually thinking
Me: Aww your kid is really cute
What I’m actually thinking: It looks like “sloth” from the goonies. But in a nappy. Get it away from me.
Guest at my flat: Do you have a toilet?
Me: Yes, just down the hall
What I’m actually thinking: No – we shit in the stairwell
Me: Excuse me
What I’m actually thinking: Get the fuck out of my way
Me: No, you don’t look fat at all
What I’m actually thinking: …You’re just blocking out the sun
*I come into the office and I’m drenched through*
Them: Is it raining?
What I’m actually thinking: Dear Moron – Never have children, sincerely, the world
Me: Bless you
*Three sneezes later*
Me: Bless you?
What I’m actually thinking: GET YOUR SHIT UNDER CONTROL
*I’m given more work to do*
Me: “I’ll get right on it!”
What I’m actually thinking: Jesus, what did your last slave die of?!
*in an interview*
Them: Why do you want this job?
Me: Because it would be an amazing opportunity and I’m sure I can become an invaluable member of the team
What I’m actually thinking: I have expensive tastes and no sugar daddy. Next question.
Me: Just kidding!
What I’m actually thinking: I have never been more serious in my life
*I’ve managed to fix someone’s computer*
Them: Wow, how did you do that?
Me: Oh, it was simple, don’t worry about it
What I’m actually thinking: I don’t have the time, crayons or sock-puppets available to explain it to you
Them: Could you make a note of that?
What I’m actually thinking: Let me add that to the brimming list of other things I don’t give a shit about
*My boss asks me to do something*
What I’m actually thinking: *I repeat the request in my head in a high-pitched childish voice and inwardly stick my tongue out*
Here is another instance that leaves me gurgling with rage. I’m at work, we have a guest come into the office, I sit them down in a meeting room and ask them if they would like any of the following refreshment options:
Which is when they turn to me and ask for a latte, a frappocino, tepid water (not hot… not cold, but inbetween), all of the above, some organic gluten-free biscuits – or some random herbal tea that I have never heard of.
I don’t know what people don’t understand about this arrangement. You have THREE choices. Does this look like a chain of Costa’s to you? Do I look like a frickin’ barista? NOW I have to google what the fuck you wanted me to make and try to replicate it using our decrepit little coffee machine that spits out two choices: espresso or Americano.
THANKS SO MUCH
P.S I HATE YOU.
PA with better things to do
Maybe I’m just a grumpy old fart before my time.
I’d love to be in a position in my life where I can throw caution to the wind and say – “Honesty? What the hell, let’s see what happens!” But right now I haven’t got enough money squirreled away for that. Money might not buy you happiness, but it will buy you enough martini’s to do a good impersonation.
I want to be retiree-rich. But not poor retiree obviously. The kind of old-person-wealthy where you can live in a villa with a well-hung houseboy during your golden years and torture your relatives by making them wonder who you have left your stash to … Only to fuck them all over by leaving the lot to a cat sanctuary.
I want to be one of those glamorous old ladies with a tiny herd of poodles pulling her along like a chariot while I swan from brunch to lunch to happy hour in a haze of Guerlain parfam and inebriated cheerfulness.
Now that’s the life.