In the Office I: Being Invisible

So here I am clit-clattering away on the comp in my very own dignifiedly grey office cabin.
I am here for a 3 month long internship program.
My job concerns little beyond looking around the hopeless premises with distracted concern and copy pasting incomprehensible, and hence boring, information fom one document to the other and then making the final product look like my handiwork.
Piece of cake.
I eat often and remorseleslly. Given that their is very little else to do it manages to prove entertaining every now and then.
Stacked around my present abode, in discreet niches invisible to the naked eye are salty delicacies every self respecting health freak would shriek and pass out at the very sight of.

When the present stock proves unfulfilling I smartly dial fast food numbers pasted carefuly on the wall.

Since stepping out for lunch is a complete no no no one even notices the multiple orders that make way to my desk everyday.

The sun is bright outside.
I catch a sight of it every time I walk into the ladies room for a bit of fresh air.
My colleagues are great. I am guessing.
Most of them don’t speak.
My seniors let me know that speech is not an appreciable quality within these four grey, brightly tube-lit walls.
Here IM works fine.

If you want water, just IM for it, some speechless guy or the other will bring it down to your desk. You won’t even have to thank him.

Life here is a series of oscillations.
From the water cooler to the coffee maker.
From the coffee maker to the water cooler.
And later from the cabin to the loo.
Everyone here is very important.

Everyone here fingers their keyboard importantly and fixes their tie every fifteen minutes.
To stay attuned I clatter on my comp profusely and type A to Z a couple of dozen times with intent. When I tire of that I puff puff my face like I were Grace Kelly in a press conference in Monaco.

Every once in a while my IM peep peeps to jerk me out of my guilty nap. Jerkily I spit away my reverie, collect my collectibles and dignifiedly clappity clap my way to the meeting room.
When people talk in the meeting room they speak with BBC radio like precision. Occasionally, when I speak, I put on my best fake Garbo voice and nod like I understand everything. Of course I sneak a peek every now and then to see if people are watching my little act, but sadly NO ONE does.

Last evening for instance this utter moron of a fellow colleague of mine was reading a list of all the items we needed sent off on mail ASAP. Being reminded of an important bit he missed out I raised my hand politely, feeling uncannily like I were back in school. My projected limb however failed to so much as attract a raised eyebrow from him and on he went with his dastardly little catalogue. Feeling a little miffed I waved my hand like I were hailing a cab. Shooting my characteristic sarci-comic grin at the other suited booted’s present in the room I waved and wagged clicked my tongue and hooted.

But to no avail.
By the time he was on the last paragraph I had almost clambered up on the table in desperation.
And yet…YET the man paid not the tiniest bit of heed to me!
Such insolence!!!!
Even my neighbour’s spoilt brat of a snotty poodle would throw me a woof if she saw my present antics!
Whatever would I have to do to get a little bit of attention round here huh? Stride atop the table rip of my clothes and get jiggy with some gut sickening Christina Aguilera number?

Sheesh!

Completely unused to such cold inattention I spent the whole day biting my recently manicured nails and wondering what in the world would make these pale faced monstrosities working with me wake up and see exactly how great I was. I bought a brand new pair of McQueens just so they could soothe their eyes for crying out loud!

It was their birth right to be able to feel thankful for my existence.

Something, I felt deep down, had to be done for these unfortunate individuals.