Working With Dicks
April 5, 2012 § Leave a comment
“Hell is other people.” – Jean-Paul Sartre
Of course, if it was five, ten years ago I would simply assume that he desperately wants to sleep with me, but I don’t know if I am capable of inciting hateful, obsessive lust in men any more. I remember having to cease a French class once because the teacher found my presence just that disturbing – my eyes habitually and innocently flicked to his head where there happened to be sparse (and from memory, curiously dyed) hair and he came over as if the tip of his spine might have begun to slip out through his arsehole; for the rest of the class I had to deal with a man who was trying not to burst into tears at work. He spent every lesson sadistically humiliating me in front of others and fawning praise on anyone who contradicted me, while he waged a private crusade against his crippling erection. It was all embarrassingly banal. I was never under the impression that it had anything to do with me personally – oh no – rather it was that in finally ringing up about those French lessons I crashed into a junction in time and space where a male sexual crisis was already in progress, and unfortunately also happened to be a rough approximation of the cause of that crisis. But like I said, this hasn’t happened for a while, and I don’t flatter myself that I’m still suffering from precisely this sort of trouble. So maybe I’m really not welcome, not capable; maybe it really is true.
The other type of person who has tormented me over the years falls broadly into the category of the dissatisfied, often menopausal woman who is slightly senior within a ludicrously fake environment and therefore has management delusions and needs the foil of a junior incompetent in order to justify her own existence. This situation is violently exacerbated if there is, in point of fact, no reason at all for this person’s existence – if, for example, the office is over-staffed owing to a swamp of lax and idiotic procedures, resulting in tasks being micro-categorised against a hypothetical gradient of difficulty in which the highest achievement of humankind is the ability to download clipart. This type of dynamic reeks of the petty ‘feminine’ and is reminiscent of the peasant family: seniority denotes Dealing With The Men, and usually comes as a result of either Being Older or Being There The Longest, and can justify such sly humiliations as commenting on the clothes and appearance or sexual and marital life of the younger women.
It is alarming how much abject misery can be caused by such situations. I have always maintained that while I do feel a real desire for something more, I essentially have no problem with short periods of dull work as long as I don’t have to cope with a noxious personality. Pulling beers or processing accounts will never lead to a more profound idea of oneself as a human (and perhaps this makes it more honest, since applying this antiquated yearning to such a system as work is profoundly corrupt) but is an acceptable way to pass the time if one does not have to masochistically take up professional idiocy to be of any specific use, or to at least forge the kind of non-resistive path that is the only real feature of that type of work, should it be found.
Then there is how it all takes on staggering personal significance in the middle of the night. A bitch at work can cause one to roll in the bedding writing mythologies of victimisation and casting oneself as the local turd. “I am born” it begins to seem “to stow my real thoughts at risk of them drying like mother’s milk, in order to become, from demented physical need, five or six different slaves.”
Well, there goes another day. I might want to get back to work, and stop proving my detractors so emphatically on the money. And oh yeah: I still can’t speak much French.