Despite what you might think (Bee!), I don't hate everyone. I am very social at my job and while I'm out and about, and I can usually get along with damn near everyone, but the number of people I can't stand is beginning to expand faster then Kristy Alley's ever-widening ass. I am becoming socially inept, the thought of some unsuspected conversation lurking around every corner is inverting my personality. This shit is serious! I'm almost afraid to leave my little cube-farm. A-me believes this is caused by the large populous of "hicks" and "red-necks." that live in this area. I prefer the less sensitized terms "shit-kicking cowboys" and "hillbilly mother fuckers with only 3 teeth."

ME: We have 13 engines on the floor in assembly, they are returns, they have been reworked, and they need to get placed into stock.

GUY WITH NO TOP TEETH: So these engines, is there something wrong with them?

ME: No... they have been fixed, they are under warranty, so put them into stock.

GUY WITH NO TOP TEETH: Well where should I put them?

ME: On the shelf, with the rest of the inventory?!

GUY WITH NO TOP TEETH: So can we use 'em then?

ME: Yeah, they've been fixed. Do you have any other questions before I willingly throw myself into that wood-chipper?

GUY WITH NO TOP TEETH: So just put these on the shelve then?

.....shudder. It's people like this that give me the "creepy-crawlies." They don't even have to say anything.

I've been a developing tattoo artist for over 10 years, and I use the term "developing" to describe my avarice to learn more techniques from more artists. I venerate every moment of learning I can get my grubby little hands on, and there isn't much that I don't relish about tattooing. There is, however, one very, very low point that I would like to touch on, and that is... people.

I'll touch first base in stating my customer service skills don't rank up there with Sam Walton's, alright? I'm not a people pleaser... I could give two shits if you're satisfied with the fucking product you just had to have without thinking it through first, and yeah, I'm just fine with telling you how much of a moron you are for doing so. You liked it when you left, so fuck off. Sarcasm or not, this is why I'm not in retail, sales, or any other customer based work environments... I just don't care. This brings me to a crossroads, obviously, because I can not claim to be a tattoo artist if I have no customers, plus it's not very lucrative without them.

Do I succumb to my hatred of the general public and retire from something I love, or do I continue to bite my tongue and pray that I'll receive genuine fans of the art who have a real appreciation? Well... I haven't put the needles away entirely...

My solution to the fork in the road was to pave my own damn way by shedding the generally curious customer. I am unlisted, I do custom design only, and my work travels only by word of mouth. Alas, every once in a while some asshole tosses in a wad of bullshit in my bubble and I'm stuck with the pungent fumes of idiocy.

Fumes that linger like my latest episode of the angry needle. Ms. 19 has just lost an aunt to breast cancer and she wants a pink ribbon tattooed on her forearm. She has chosen me of all people to assist her, not a problem, until she involves her mother. Now not only do I have an indecisive 19 year old who is looking for the right symbol of respect, but now I have to convince her mother that she'll be just fine with the damn thing on her arm.

She won't be able to run for Miss America, alright, but it's not like she could have before hand anyways... move on. If you're afraid the tattoo is going to get in the way of a possible employer seeing you in a management position in their company... don't get it, or have it on a less visible part of the body. I am not responsible for the jobs you may or may not get on account of a tattoo, or on account of your lack of intellect for that matter.

It's not my fucking problem, and neither is your mom... so figure this shit out before you get here.

There are no words to express the horror that's involved with restroom activities at work. Comradeships at the urinals? No... that's just stupid, creepy and awkward. A tell all in the powder room? No, too much estrogen... one too many times of sharing personal tidbits and robo-bitch evolves. Next thing you know an EMT member is rushing Sally downtown to get the tampon dislodged from her ear and Penny has just been paged to the human resource office.

The toilet is a very uncomfortable experience for me if there's another body in my presence.
Am I passing inspection?
Why are you standing so close to me?
JEEBUS! What the fuck is that smell?
There are far too many variables associated with the public to really allow me to just relax, which is why I will travel the additional 431 steps to the nearest single stall, locking door, completely private restroom. Sure I may look rather odd race walking past the cube farms patting that brim of sweat off my forehead, but in the end it's completely worth the trouble.

On the flip side of that completely private, single stall, locking door restroom someone could be on the other side waiting for you to vacate. We've all been there before, that body that's twitching nervously because I can't fucking wait anymore! patiently and understandingly waiting for some poor soul to relieve themselves. When the door opens there are a few scenarios that can unravel.

A. The occupant opens the door, looks you in the eye and begins chattering about the weather or what not.
B. The occupant opens the door, stares at the floor, races by you, and an entourage of powerful fumes gust past your now watering eyes.
C. The occupant flings the door open and in a coughing fit they discourage you from using that facility, proclaiming that a small bomb erupted within those four ceramic walls.
D. The occupant slowly opens the door and a shower of shitty flowers sweet potpourri fills your nostrils to the point of intoxication as the nice old lady from general accounting greets you and adjusts her pants as she complacently walks to her cube.

In any case... I DO NOT want to be the occupant. So when the serious urge overwhelms me to take a dump, shadooby, shit load off I take extra precautions to avoid the hassle and possible embarrassment of some asshole ruining it someone standing outside the door.

I plan for this exercise like it's an Olympic event. My goal, strategy, and mindset are all going for the gold... providing my body is in check with these arrangements. My mind races over which bathroom to occupy.. by weighing the populous of the area with the density of my urges I decide I will use the women's stalls in the back section of the manufacturing shop, and my reasoning for this is fairly simple. There are 3 female employees that work in the shop, all of which have gone home or work closer to the other shop facilities. The idea of it all is so simple it's perfect as long as no one sees me going in or coming out of the restroom, which they shouldn't since it's late in the afternoon and the skeleton night crew is now aboard. What's the worst that could happen aside from a fire drill, tornado drill, or a "postal" episode drill?

There I sat... pants around my ankles, cell phone in hand, not a care in the world. I am in the final stages of completing my conquest when the door wings open. Startled with panic and fear I slap my phone shut, jam it into my pockets and instinctively clutch onto my pants. A ridiculously loud clatter rolls closer and closer as the brink of my sanity begins to fade. And in one clean slicing action my ideas of peaceful serenity and "What's the worst that could happen" ...is demolished. KAPUT, DESTROYED, GONE, POOF. A delicate voice "OH! I'm sorry girl... I'll wait for you to come out before I start spraying this place clean.. "

WHAT THE FUCK? When did the cleaning department change their hours? Apparently they did this back in June when the mommas just shy of heat stroke couldn't take the heat anymore, and it's easier for them to clean the restrooms between 5 and 9 because nobody is using them, and what the hell am I gonna do now? Great, i'm not only going to get my ass chewed by a 58 year old woman for using the ladies, but I will also have to contend with her enormous fucking mouth gossiping habits.

Do I just compose myself, clear my throat and pronounce I must be a complete fucking moron bit confused because I couldn't tell the difference between the blue "MENS" and the huge pink sign that said "WOMENS". That sounds reasonable, doesn't it?

Needless to say, the last few days the bubbly housekeeping lady hasn't said much to me lately. She usually at least smiled and waved to the "handsome little devil" she just "adores", but no... now she won't even look at the "disgusting bastard!" "poor illiterate mook."

I seriously hate my job. It’s really not that I hate what I do or who I work with, but I can’t stand being bored or unmotivated… and I am constantly unchallenged. So in retaliation for my lack of brain stimulation… I don’t do a damn thing work related all day long. Well, not unless I absolutely have to. I work in the “materials” department… I’m an inventory analyst (and yes, this is only my day job… I actually do have a better job; it just doesn’t pay as consistently… and NO, I’m not a drug dealer!)

My boss is a stubborn nugget I like to call Kev-O, (I’ll bet you’ll never guess what his real name is) and he appreciates the humor I bring to our department, he just doesn’t show it. I know behind those wiry glasses his eyes are actually beaming with joy instead of the WTF-is-the-matter-with-you glare I normally see.

Kev-O: “We’d like you to pick up some of the slack in shipping, how much time can you donate, couple hours, half days, how much?”

Orion: “I am flattered! Really I am, but I cannot accept this wonderful gift… (With snood face) I won’t allow it!”

Kev-O, walking away: “Perfect… half days it is, and help yourself to a donut…”

Orion, shouting: “Why, so we can both be fat!?”

I also share the “materials” department with 2 purchasing agents, Dale and Melissa. I am the immature, unconventional, brat of the group… Melissa is over 6 feet tall… and she’s unnaturally blond, Dale is of the same height, accept he’s not blond, nor is he trying to be. I’m the only one in my department that is not over 6 foot… but I take pride in conjuring up “tall” jokes, or any other verbal darts for that matter.

Melissa: “Good morning O.”

Orion, smugly: “Good morning Melissa" I pause briefly to access the situation and decide clothing is subject for today. "What the hell are you wearing today?!”

Melissa: “Why? What’s wrong with my outfit?” she proclaims and she stretches out the fabric of her light blue checkered shirt that's almost, but not quite too small.

Orion: “It looks like a picnic basket threw up all over you.”

We have a special relationship, Melissa and I… I make fun of her clothes, hair, height, weight, anything really that constitutes a potentially hostile environment and she, and well… she takes it rather well with insulting jabs of her own on occasion. But not today, nope… because nobody is here! No Dale, no Melissa, and no Kev-O… not even Kristen the annoying bimbo 2 cubes down.

Hate my job. I hate my job. I…