I’m sitting at my desk at work, obviously counting something very intently.

SHE walks in.

“IT IS BRENSDAY?!?!” (All caps and a proliferation of excited, confused punctuation couldn’t be more appropriate. For every moment she speaks.)

I reply, without looking up, because making eye contact is a repulsive prospect : like gazing into a pair of face-anuses poised over a choking mess of teeth that can’t possibly chew through anything (can they?). I can no longer be bothered to feign interest or kindness after this woman gleefully wooed me with tales of how her backwoods redneck husband has created a population of “eye-less” and “tail-less” squirrels around her house from his backporch shooting range. Her delight at animal mutilation, and a man not even MAN enough to kill a critically injured animal (were these tales true) killed the last give-a-fuck I could muster for her.

I reply, as usual when she spouts a half-sentence of nonsense which has stumbled through her jagged mouth and out into the unsuspecting world, “I don’t know what that means.”

“MY FRIEND BRENDA AT THE ZOO! IS IT BRENSDAY?!?!”

“I don’t know your friend Brenda.”

“BRENSDAY!”

She acts as if I’m an idiot for not knowing her secret dialect. She is a woman so supremely arrogant and stupid that her own mysterious language, cobbled together from the worst aspects of pop culture and always delivered in her “funny voice” (aka “Incredibly Loud, Constipated Old Man”), is the only language that matters, and anyone who does not know it is a fool and requires reeducation.

I count louder, to reinforce the fact that I am counting, and I am not smart enough to count and listen at the same time.

“ARE YOU COUNTING? SHE DOES TATTOOS!”

“BRENSDAY!”

“THERE’S SO MUCH TO DO I’M TWO WEEKS BEHIND I CAN’T DO IT ALL!”

I’m still obviously trying to count, louder and louder. She knows I’m counting – why doesn’t she shut up about her friends?

“IT’S BRENSDAY!”

I leave the room as quickly as I can, before the urge to kick her chair out from under her becomes too great. I go home early. After a co-worker had tried to look up “Steven Hawken’s A Brief History of the World” earlier today, I’d had enough.