The past few days at work have been a hellish space of trying to make Office 365 work the way it’s supposed to work.  This has included harassing colleagues with superior technical knowledge with messages like:

Email:

This paragraph contains actual questions relating to the work we do.

Bill Gates is a motherfucking coward.

 

Slack Channel:

This paragraph contains knowledge acquired from troubleshooting tips from the customer support.

If CNN is reporting a woman wearing a diaper and a helmet driving to Seattle astronaut-style, it’s probably me.

 

Email:

This paragraph is about how OneDrive worked yesterday.

If Bill Gates didn’t give vaccines and clean water to kids, I would really want to stab him.

 

 There were also hours of customer support calls over the past few months trying to get everything right, which sometimes devolves to my eyes rolling so far back in my head I can see dinosaurs or me smashing myself in the head with my phone.  

There were also hours of customer support calls over the past few months trying to get everything right, which sometimes devolves to my eyes rolling so far back in my head I can see dinosaurs or me smashing myself in the head with my phone.  

They promised the Holy Grail of Office Support; they gave us the Holy Fail of Office Support.  

(I stole that fail joke and if the writer ever reads this and claims the joke, I owe you lunch, which I will end promptly when I need to let the Bitches out.)

Is this immaturity or a flair for the dramatic?

I’ll go with the latter since I wasn’t always capable of showing my emotions so easily.

All the problems will still be there in the morning and I will do my best to try and fix them.  I did get to have some fun today and the bullshit melted away.   

What fun, you say?

First, I got to kick off another season of Girls On the Run, which I adore.  Of course I don’t drop the curse bombs there.  (Full disclosure—I did say “SHIT” once in the first season, when I dropped something.  I looked wide-eyed at the two girls in earshot and one looked at me and said, “My mom would have said that, too,” without missing a beat.) 

What I get to do at GOTR is hang out with cool little chicks, have fun, and move.  I forget about my ability to be an overgrown ten year-old until I get back with the GOTR girls.  “You are only young once, but you can stay immature indefinitely,” said Mr. Nash. 

The GOTR girls crack me up because they make up the funniest games, like Crabby Princesses, where you have to talk like a crabby princess when you run.  “I said 3.5 sugars in my tea, this is only 3!” with a hair toss. 

They always ask if I have a husband or a boyfriend, or if I have kids.  There are always a few that are blown away that I don’t have kids.  But then I tell them about the Girls (Bitches) and how we all run together, so they’re like my kids.  Plus, I get to hang out with the GOTR goobers every week, so why would I need kids of my own?

Also, there are always a few kids who are obsessed with my tattoos.  Some disapprove, some think they are pretty, some think they are weird, but it usually is a good way to have a conversation about one of two topics most kids love: art or animals.  I can talk about how my skin is like a piece of art I can always have with me and what kind of art they like to create.  Since almost all of my tattoos are animals, I can ask them what their favorite animals are.  It’s sort of amazing how they open up if you just ask a couple of questions, listen, and ask a couple more. 

GOTR is therapeutic for me, as is getting more art added to my skin.  After a run with the Bitches, I got another round of tattoo therapy tonight. I’ve had a four different artists work on me, with two doing the brunt of the work.  Obviously, the finished product is always exciting, but there is also something about the process I enjoy. I have never regretted any of my tattoos or had any trouble committing to them.  And for someone with trust issues, having another person in my space coming at me with a gun and a needle probably doesn’t sound like a good time. 

But it is.

It’s calming.

I have to sit still.

I read at times.

I talk at times.

I stare at the ceiling at times.

I breathe. 

I feel each puncture of the needle.  Hell, I enjoy the endorphins.  I gave up everything else. 

I wonder if psychological pain the worst because I forget that all my pain is psychological. 

I’ll forget again over the next three weeks until I find myself back in the chair.  

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