The Unnecessary Accessory

The moment I discovered that class is completely unnecessary would have fallen sometime between a cigarette and shot of Jack Daniels this Easter weekend. It may have been the rum in my veins or the three foot cushion of smoke around my head, but I stumbled upon a point of such clarity I nearly shocked myself (how else to make incredible discoveries, but to stumble?). There I was, reeking of lung cancer and decked in my favourite pair of triple XL sweat pants, when it occurred to me that I loved every minute of my drunken laziness. Who needs class when you can have fun?

Stumbling into those who have managed to keep their drink in a glass and under seven percent, whose mascara hasn’t migrated to their cheeks and who have remembered to take a shower before going out always serves to highlight my inability to function like the rest of society. Too much of my life seems to be documented in those sort of unfortunate pictures I wouldn’t want posted on the internet, let alone shown to my mother, to pretend that I have any sense of elegance whatsoever. The best adventures have been the most compromising (what the hell is it in alcohol that makes your clothes fall off?), the messiest and the most hostile; I can’t help but be disappointed if I crawl home in a presentable state (not that my parents have come to expect as much of me anyway). Class is for the appropriate; absurdity is for those who know how to have fun.

I find that, by now, I have lost the capability of devoting my energy and attentions to those who choose to judge (regrettably enough, this could perhaps be attributed to my close friendship with the Captain), so I choose not to give a fuck. Besides, I have long since elected to believe that I am loved for my complete lack of class and rational; infamy is fine by me.

Thank You for Calling

Slipping into student life has not only altered my definitions of socially–acceptable existence (regular showering or eating things other than carbohydrates are no longer categorized as requirements, but time consuming luxuries) but that being flat broke sucks. Somehow, despite my earlier beliefs, spending your time studying or consuming alcohol does not lend itself to a full wallet. Discovering that my meagre funds were slowly funnelling out of my savings account and into my liver, I decided that it was past time to invade the working world. So invade I did.

The glory and triumph of being marginally successful only lasted so long; working in a call center may have successfully ruined my faith in humanity. One would imagine that informing people of the reason as to why their money is no longer available to them would at least evoke some sort of measure of thanks; unfortunately, this is not the case. Upon presenting a surprisingly large number of customers with the specifics, I am all-too-often met with a firm front of disbelief and a contrived conviction that I am making things up just to fuck with them. Congratulations retards; that is exactly what my plan is.

Despite the very solid fact that I am actually paid to pass on the correct information to those who assault me with questions and concerns, common belief dictates that those of us who you call for information, in reality, have none. The number of times each piece of knowledge is repeated to each individual client only serves to punctuate our uselessness to the customer, as well as the uselessness of their cognitive abilities. Subsequently, it turns out that most people have no idea how many numbers to read when asked for eight, nor that I actually need to hear them to be able to know what they are.

Unbeknownst to most callers, the mute button is one of our favourite tools. While they are kindly reminding me that honesty is important to the health of a relationship or asking what on earth we are doing as a country to charge such high rent, I get to giggle silently on the other line without penalty. The mute button could only have been installed to allow us to remain professional while informing the customer that all of their funds have gone to porn sites, alcohol and True.com. The customer may be mid-rant, but we are catching up on the latest gossip with our coworkers; you may think that you’re complaint about the fees charged is one that sets you apart and gains our respect, but it’s about as significant to my day as the sandwich that I ate earlier. In fact, less so (it was a damned good sandwich).

Thank you for calling customer service, please hang up; we really don’t give a shit.