The Plot(s) Thicken

I arrived at work Monday with a pocketful of Xanax. I started the morning off with a moderate four blue footballs. I wanted more, but knew I should space them out, in order to better cope with the coming shitstorm.

I brought a ziploc bag filled with Tootsie Pop suckers for the AMs. It was my first day back in eleven days and I was excited to see them all, in their glorious, 20-something hotness. It's all like a fractal mix of hazy colors. Swirls of blue eyes, black hair, firm boobs, bright white teeth, purple, orange, red, brown and blue Tootsie Pop wrappers, a picture... yes, I awoke sometime Wednesday to discover a picture of the AMs... dressed in Santa Claus hats afixed to my whiteboard with sticky blue shit. I wondered if I had stolen it from one of them or if it was a gift. I booted my laptop and closed my eyes, trying to remember a dream.

I talked to H first. She was married recently. I remember being shocked when S announced the marriage upon H's return from her honeymoon... I thought she had been married all along. After that, I made it a point to flirt with her even more wantonly. K interrupted, "Why are you talking to the red-headed stepchild?"

"Well, she's pretty... do you mind, I'm busy flirting here... don't worry, you're next."

Suddenly, H's blue eyes filled with a stunned glaze. Was the Xanax completely destroying my judgement? Had I gone too far?

H stood up, "osm, this is my husband!"

I turned, grinned, "I didn't know you were married!"

My comment was not appreciated. Hubby shook my hand, having no choice really, since I offered it, "Pleased to meet you!" I smiled.

He grunted and frowned, I moved on to flirting with K.

I came home for lunch and took more Xanax. I still had heard nothing from C, the girl to whom I wrote the shitty poem. It wasn't so bad--they had moved us to the third floor while I was on vacation, so at least she wasn't sitting directly behind me. And I decided since I hadn't heard anything from anyone else, I was probably going to be okay. Somehow. Miraculously.

I decided I would spruce up my new cubicle a bit. I took my Ralph Steadman poster to work with me and put it up on one of the walls. I put a menthol cigarette my cousin had given me in the mouth of my alien action figure. The AMs had welcomed me back enthusiastically, which gave me a renewed strength. I was ready for whatever was coming.

What came was a single private message in my IRC window...

c: i need to talk to you later after work
osm: okay

Fuck. Arrangements were made to talk via Google chat after work. The seconds began ticking until 7:00pm.

I logged into Google chat and waited for C.

We talked intensely... as intensely as possible over the internet, with a nervous system ground down to a blunt nub with benzos. C explained she was having difficulty getting over her ex, who had left her to return to his wife.

"Dear god, I'm starting to think I did myself a favor."

She explained she was breaking up with the dude she had been casually seeing at work, since he was "too much like a girl."

"Jesus," I popped another Xanax.

The details are a blur, I could pull the logs, but it would be as pointless as being awake on benzos. Ultimately, loose plans were made to get high and go on a road trip and fuck... whenever she could find a babysitter. I fell asleep in my chair.

I awoke Thursday morning, 10am. The Xanax was gone. My cell phone was filled with calls from my boss, "osm, we're worried! Did you get in a wreck?!"

"The only wreck is in my skull," I thought.

I lifted myself from the floor, shook the cat litter from my hair, put myself together, went to the office, "sorry, I didn't hear the alarm."

There was no alarm.

I booted up my laptop and got everything loaded up that I needed. I checked my personal gmail. There was an email from C:

I just saw this poem you sent me! All I can say is WOW! How could I miss this? Amazing!

I hit the delete key like it was a little blue pill.

I worked late that night, until 9pm. We had a deadline to meet. The new UI had to be out by morning.

At some point during the day, K came over with a problem. She saw the AM picture I had put up on my wall, "there it is!"

My face flushed, "did you give that to me?"

"Yeah!"

"I couldn't remember. I had a lot of Xanax that day."

"You crack me up."

I went down to smoke a cigarette. When I came back, one of the guys from the tenth floor, a Canadian, and L--the girly guy C dumped--got on the elevator with me. L was usually a used-car-salesman type. Always jabbering and sarcastic. The Canadian guy spoke, "hey, osm."

"Hey. What are you guys up to?"

L stared ahead, blankly.

"Just smoking, " the Canadian guy chuckled.

"Yeah." I got off on the third floor, leaving them to the elevator.

That night I came home with nothing to do. The Xanax was gone. Though, I had been sleep-walking for days, I felt I needed a rest. The past several days seemed like a roll of movie film that had been cut up and dumped into a pile on the floor.

I didn't feel like reading. Or writing. A computer was the last thing I wanted to see. I turned on the TV and cable box. I noticed some new recordings in the DVR: Now, what have I done?

I browsed to find what shows I had recorded in my benzo stupor. The screen filled with listings of "Lazy Town" episodes.

"Jesus Christ," I thought, hitting the "play" button.

I watched an entire episode. I played the credits in slow-motion so I could read them. I discovered "Sportacus" is also the creator/writer of the show.

What a jackass.