**SHE** and he. A real office anti-romance.

Let me know if you’ve heard this song before.

Two people, sharing an office, splitting a small department of common duties.

One person, female. Extroverted, obese, loud, demonstrative, dramatic. Spends more time talking about work more than actually working. Talks shit about everyone and everything; complains in a loud, shrill voice, usually through a mouthful of fattening food, but a small fraction of her daily 5,000-calorie avalanche of adipose-building regimen. Feigns fag-hag vocal fry in certain situations of “officialdom” when required in the work situation. Is a skilled manipulator of perception and self-portrayal. Has fallen into favor among most of the peripheral members of said department through her incessant and shameless self-promotion (coupled and enabled by the poor standards of behavior and intelligence on the part of most people in modern society). Does very little, has zero analytical skills. But she talks a good deal and a good game, and puts her annoying, loud yammering out there where people associate such drivel with “hard worker” when in fact, she does very little. She has a career history in positions that involve dealing with a very “big” picture and large, macro concepts. Piss-poor ability to handle details or multitask. Frequently ignores emails because she’s too busy shopping online or reading TMZ while chewing mouthfuls of pre-lunch cud. Talks continuously throughout the day about her unimportant and uninteresting personal life and falls into bouts where it appears she speaks only to hear her voice prattle on meaninglessly. In fact, her eyes turn to a disconnected autistic gaze at these moments, enough so that her office mate doesn’t even look at her anymore. This lack of engagement seems to spur her on to talk even more and more and more. She spends half her day on her smart phone, texting and reading texts and indulging in other idiocy.

One person, male. Introverted, solitary, quiet, hates noise and stimuli. Cringes when his office mate walks into the room talking before she even sits her massive ass down. Is a tragic employer of self-promotion. Very detail-oriented and applied. Can work on a task for hours at a time while simultaneously handling a multitude of other tasks that may come up in the interim. Seamlessly straddles many tasks and never tires, for this immersion in such minutiae satisfies a soothing yearning to retreat from the harsh loudness and glare of the external world, one which is amplified greatly by the beast within this office. He rarely surfs and rarely talks. He doesn’t have a smart phone and does not give a flying fuck what his friends are doing or saying, and since he has no texting on his flip phone, it is never an issue. Since he does so much more work that his office mate, he makes more errors and in modern corporations, errors catch all the attention. His silence and demureness result in an anonymity which underlies his invisible contributions except for those times he makes an error. His viable, valuable contributions are overshadowed by the cacophony of his office mate’s eternal self-congratulatory stream of cognitive retardation.

Office mate? She never makes errors because she never does anything, or fails to take on challenging tasks. The introvert tackles those at his own peril, but ultimately, he has very few fucks to give which is one reason he can thrive in such an environment. In fact, this no fucks to give attitude tenuously alienates him from the department as a whole.

But…he doesn’t give a fuck, and he surely doesn’t give a fuck about his office mate’s boring life and pointless words that murder his brain cells by the spoonful.