I came across the following from an open-call for an ongoing female writers’ series called FUNNY WOMEN. Keefe and I are clearly kin.
My Debilitating Anxiety Decodes My Unread Work Emails, by Jessica Keefe.
When you send me an email, don’t think I don’t know what you’re really saying.
This sounds friendly at first, sure. But the curt punctuation confirms that the sender is actually pretty pissed off about GOD KNOWS WHAT. I devote the next three hours speculating, pouring over everything I’ve said and done near and around this person in the past six months.
“Great. Thank you!”
This person doesn’t care about me enough to elaborate upon her general feelings of non-hostility towards me. Bitch.
This person–probably from HR–smirks with disdain as he writes this email, like my Granny does when she tells me that the fish tacos I convinced her to order at On The Border are “very… different.” Why do I have this effect on people???
“Thanks in advance.”
Why exactly am I such a piece of shit? I wonder if it has something to do with my obsessive personality. Whatever the reason, this person–probably someone recently promoted and proud of it–is sure sick of it. I spend the rest of the day not working, obsessing over this instead.
“Did you put that file on the server?”
This person obviously finds me, you know, just generally boring and awful.
“Could you re-send?”
Do you ever think maybe YOU are the boring and awful one?!
Oh, dear god. I am starting to grate on this person. I am the worst, ever. I am inept, careless, clueless. I am caught in a loop of my own elaborately constructed failure.
“Please liaise with the appropriate department.”
This person wishes I’d shove it, immediately.
I am disgusting.
“Let me know.”
Everyone knows I forgot to shower this morning. The baby powder that I’m using to conceal my greasy roots smells like a Koala Bear Kare Baby Changing Station in a Wendy’s bathroom.
“See you later.”
Oh, so I should just fuck right off, should I?
No one can’t not wish someone the “best” in an email, so I can’t really assume this means anything positive.
Fine. I’ll just drop dead already.
Just because one measly person loves me doesn’t mean everyone else in my office/apartment/parents’ house/old college dorm/that Wendy’s bathroom isn’t sitting around talking about what a jackass I am. I need to grow up and get real.
Who’s the dick now?
The above is also a particularly apt illustration of what I might look like were I to work in an office, as opposed to in my bed. It’s a tough life.