The Intern Has Lunch

mean girls
Still from: Mean Girls

Today, before lunchtime, I had already gotten through the day’s work (because in spite of everything, I am someone who must be the best at everything I do because else, what’s the point really). But seeing, seeing as how I AM IN AN OPEN OFFICE. OPEN OFFICE.


Ahem, yes. So, seeing as how I am in an open office, I couldn’t really be caught slacking by the secretary who was watching youtube videos or by Mrs H., next to me, who was making home calls as she is wont to do. No, I was too new for that. So, I just…clicked. Click click.


Clickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclick. (Furious clicking to signify frustration, because I am a serious person).

Cliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiick. And a good long one. (I don’t know what this one signifies, it just felt like a nice addition. Like something a serious office worker would do).

I involved myself wholeheartedly into the act of clicking as a way to ignore the clock that had struck 12 (the hour of sweet, sweet relief). Because everyone was still busy working hard at their personal lives. (At this point, the secretary, Mrs Emile, was whisper-shouting at her husband about pension plans and feeding the cat). Either way, I couldn’t be the first one to move to eat.

Click click

……………………………………………Click click

………………………………………………………………………………………..Click click

đŸŽ”Clicking away my lunch timeđŸŽ”

Until, mercifully, the purple-clad angel that was Mrs. H, in all her extroverted splendour asked if I wasn’t going to have lunch. At which point I masterfully let out an innocent: “Oh, what, it’s lunch time already? :O”



“Working too hard, that’s why you didn’t notice!”




Yeah…So hard. But let it be known that should anyone wish to bring harm to my lady Mrs Hautemante, they would have to go through me first. It’s weird, but every time I start working somewhere, I always get irrationally attached to/protective of one particular individual. It’s weird too, because essentially, for all intents and purposes, I kindof hate people. The last time, it was the proofreader: an old, thin man, named something very French, like Jean-Pierre or something. Whom I only heard swear once when the AcadĂ©mie Française decided to mess a bunch of things up in order to simplify the language. I remember word-to-word what he said, too. (“Mais ces messieurs de l’AcadĂ©mie Française, excuse-moi pour le terme, mais ce sont des cons! Des cons ces messieurs-lĂ !”) *

So, lunch was a lonely business.

Like, lonely lonely.

When I was mostly unemployed (How is one mostly unemployed, you ask?) I cherished silent lunches alone with my thoughts. But to be honest, today was a little sad. I didn’t know where exactly people took their lunches and everyone had gone out.

So I wandered out, sat alone and ate my cold sandwich that I had made in a rush that morning. Afterwards, I had about 40 minutes of lunch break left and there seemed to be nothing to do but contemplate the silence. I didn’t like it.

Every silence is different. This one was not self-imposed. It just happened and I was a little stuck inside of it.

I again had trouble with the whole time thing when the clock neared 4 (I was almost sobbing in relief ). At 3:58:49( I COUNTED) no one was making a move to leave. Strangely, I admired their determination to work, even at something I thought was  boring. I mean, really, office workers work harder than we give them cred—aaaaaaaaaand it’s 4 and everyone is gone.

Well, let it not be said that office workers are not efficient.

*”These gentlemen from the French Academy, excuse me for the language, but they are idiots/imbeciles! Imbeciles, these gentlemen!”

Note: It really wasn’t as bad or as lonely as it sounds~ I’m a grown adult lol. It’s just things that happen when you start somewhere or something new. So cheer up! (But I just had to use that photo, didn’t I 😛 )

The Intern and the Printer


I stapled my first document today. I feel like I have been initiated.

It felt like Mrs Q. was just going to go around all the departments, waving the printed paper around, hiking up the Big Boss’ desk like it was the Pride Rock and she was Rafiki.

And my stapled document was Simba and—Nyaaaaaaa tsigoyaaaa Mama gi ttttii babaaaaa

And okay, here’s the thing:

They’re hiring.

If I do well, it has been suggested (by all and then some more) that I could get a job.


I do not like the prospect of unemployment. Of no money in the bank. You could even say they are fairly coercive factors. But employment. As in a contract. As in: “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to mind these cuffs around your Time and Opportunities, would you?”. See, they can have the ‘now’. The now where my time and opportunities are just taking a cruise around the world. But to stake a claim on my maybes, where everything, where a lot lies…Nuuuuuhhhh.

On another note, the big boss makes dad jokes and speaks in exaggerated french, like a rushed Parisian (not uncommon in these parts). Today’s joke:

“You’re here early!” I was. “I was just sitting here to watch who would be late.” to which I replied okay. And to which he then laughed, giggled almost. “I’m joking, I’m joking.” he said.

Are you…are you looking for the joke? Because it’s right there. That was it. That was the joke. And you know what the most insane thing is? Everyone else gets it. Everyone knows he’s ‘joking’. Yeah. Apparently, it’s a bit of an honour to be joked with, too. Let’s just say, the big boss is really big. He’s pretty important in that kind of world. Some would even say the most important.

I also printed my first document today (so many firsts!). I’m a little put-off that Mrs Q. didn’t start quietly sniffling in the corner, occasionally dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, shaking her head at how they do grow up so fast, don’t they? Just yesterday I didn’t know her, and now look! Even printing things.

But guess what I printed.

No, really, guess.

Something so quintessentially office worker you could bottle it and sell it as a perfume (Eau De Printer No. 3)  and everyone would know what it smelled like.

An e-mail.

That’s what I printed. I don’t even know why they made me print it. I never used it later. (Lies, I doodled on the paper. I doodle on paper the way a dog pees on lampposts: it’s compulsive).

So, in good news today, I may or may not have found our Earth’s killers. Like, we can just tell hard-working scientists around the world to take it easy for now. Someone just call Green Peace and Nat Geo and show them the OBSCENE AMOUNTS OF PAPER WE USE.

But do you think office workers are contractually obligated to print things? And that somewhere, there’s a trembling earth-lover, quietly rebelling, getting nervous when they haven’t printed something in a while, afraid their co-workers will get suspicious?


Here, for your enjoyment:

Also, how am I ever going to be able to write something serious again after “I doodle on paper the way a dog pees on lampposts”?