Jamalyn (jamalyn) wrote,
Jamalyn
jamalyn

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Words, words, words

I have this coworker that I can’t hardly stand talking to; mostly because she says things like new little on-ses rather than little nuances and so-and-so irates me.

But today… It started out simply enough; she was asking if I had seen some show or other on the Discovery channel. Not likely, as I can only watch 20-30 minutes of television at any given time before I start getting ancy and must find something else to do.

And so, like the honest person I am, I told her no.

She then began to explain about the program (the origins of math or something similar) and was a good ways into this explanation when she started taking about a hibiscus.

“Hibiscus?” I asked, unsure.

She paused, hmmming, “I don’t know your word for hibiscus.”

Okay, point the first: My word? My word? You, my bubbly non-friend, do not know any of my words, and I sincerely question your knowledge of your own. It annoys me to no end when people say something stupid and then try to make out like I cannot understand simple English. Hell, I usually speak it better than they do. But before I could clarify my confusion, she continued:

“Yes, its this square shaped thing,” she pantomimed a decidedly rectangular shape, “With the wires running across,” more slashing motions, this time in a horizontal direction, “strung with beads, wooden I guess.” Question: What does it matter what the beads were and/or are made out of? “They used it for counting things.”

“Abacus,” I informed her, already given up on making her realize that I wasn’t questioning the meaning of the word hibiscus, just her use of it.

“Ahh! That’s what you call it. The words are very similar, no?”

“No.” I told her, nicely (honestly), “That’s your word for it.” Okay, so maybe I was getting a little too sweet, sticky, if you will. But I can’t be bothered about offending people like her. They haven’t the brains to know when they are being mocked.

“Oh?” she questioned.

I nodded, but I don’t think she believed me, “A hibiscus is a type of flower,” I clarified.

“Oh!” she laughed; tittered really, and then when on to finish telling me about this show I had never expressed any interest in, while all the time I had more work than I’d care to admit floating near by and watching for its chance to pull me under.

But what really surprised me and, I suppose, bothered me was how very much I wanted to crack her in the head. Really. Just haul back and let fly at her skull. Or shake her. I wanted to shake her until she quit talking and just left me alone. It was this intense burning urge centered right in the core of my innards, too low to be my heart, but to central to be my spleen, and all resulting in this urge not to have to share my air with such pointless people.

It has passed, this feeling, but even in typing this up now, I can feel my muscles tighten, working their way up from my hands and up through my chest until I find it difficult to breath against the slowly building pressure. It’s a hate, I suppose, but it feels so strange.

I don’t know.
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