Hall of Shame

Can I just tell you that my co-worker has crowned me with the nickname The Queen of Calm? I love it! The Queen of Calm. You all may find that hard to believe as I am kind of spazzy in my writings here, but in person I am way tranquil. Really. Why am I getting the feeling that you don't believe me? I am calm. I AM CALM, GODDAMMIT.

Anyway. I just like the nickname. And I really am calm a lot of the time plus it's better than being the Queen of Ridonkulous, which would also be quite valid.

Still though, I am having a hard time thinking about something to blog about, other than the fact that my ovaries are a buncha assholes (hi Blue Soup, I know you feel me on that), so let's talk about me doing something stupid, how about that? I know, I know, there is no END to these stories. And believe me, what I have told you about so far? Tip o' the iceberg, laddies.

I got a little Irish there. Didja notice? See, the stupid just keeps on coming.

A long time ago, like many years ago, before becoming a librarian was a twinkle in my eye, I worked at an urban college that was pretty small. Small enough to where it kind of reminded me of high school, except unlike my high school, people actually did their homework, were engaged with academia, and didn't hit each other on the back of the neck and yell out "neck respect!" when they wanted to really burn someone. Since I was on staff at this school I got to take classes there. One class I took was a philosophy class and it was taught by a very nice, very smart, very kind professor. Let's call him Frances Bacon. Frances and I bonded a little bit, as I was really geeked out by philosophy at the time and he was quite young as professors go and so we felt maybe a little bit like contemporaries and we would do things like have these long conversations in the hallway about riveting things like whether or not one could find principles of Wittgenstein in the movie RoboCop (I am not kidding, we really talked about that once).

I have to insert here that there were no (as far as I am aware) amorous tingly feelings emanating from either of us and although we were friendly and talking about very sexy things like RoboCop there was nothing at all torrid about our interactions. He was just nice. A little awkward and shy, but I think we would have become outside-of-school friends eventually. If only I hadn't effed it all to shite.

The road to ruin began when my friend Palindrome came to visit me from the Midwest. I took her to school with me and she sat in on my Philosophy class. Or maybe she just was walking around campus with me and I pointed Frances out to her and told her that I thought he was cool. Something like that. The important thing to note was that Palindrome was single at the time and she thought Frances was cute, which yes, he totally was. Too bad she was leaving to go back home in the next couple of days or I am sure they would have made beautiful philosophy together.

Palindrome went home. This was also a time in my life where she and I emailed each other constantly. Like once a day for sure. And most of those emails were nonsensical inside jokes that meant nothing to anyone but us. One of the running jokes? She started to ask about Frances. She would say things like "How is my future boyfriend Frances? Do you think he noticed me? He would totally be hot in bed, you can just tell with those cute geeky types." To which I would reply "Oh totally. He would make your glasses steam up for sure. But he would probably want to talk dirty about attributes and modes while you were doing it though."

Of course as the semesters went by, the joke continued, and we made up dirtier and dirtier scenarios about Frances, always with some weird philosophical punchline involved. Of course. That's just how I be. This all culminated in one email where I wrote a dirty poem about Frances. And my friend. And maybe Kant too. You getting the picture?

I thought my poem was so genious, that I printed it out that afternoon to take it home and show my other friend.

You probably know how this story is going to end, but I'll go ahead and end it anyway. Just so you can be extra impressed with my idiocy.

On my way out that night, I walked by Frances' office. I happened to remember that I had an article that maybe he would be interested in. Hey! I'll just slip that article I have here, in my hand, under his door. Because I am so nice. And so thoughtful.

I slipped the article under his door, went home, looked through my stuff, and COULDN'T FIND MY POEM.

That's weird. Where's my poem? I printed it out all specifical so as to make all my friends laugh with me.

You guessed her, Chester. My poem? Was lying there, in the dark, on the floor of Frances' office. The article that I meant to slide under the door? In my bag.

Poor Frances. To imagine what it must have been like, to arrive at his office the next morning, see the paper on the floor, pick it up, SEE MY NAME ON THE TOP, and then read the poem. Sometimes I lie awake at night and think about that. You know, when I'm in the mood to die of shame.

Frances never really talked to me again after that. I was at a party once where he was, and I distinctly saw him look at me, do an aboutface and then march away almost in a sprint. What could I do? I just had to eat it.

Maybe I should be the Queen of Ridonkulous after all.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl