…When You Work With A Bunch Of Turkeys.
Sometimes I really wish I could blog about work. Sometimes I think I could write my entries in such a way that no one would be the wiser; I could hide the identities of my co-workers to protect the innocent and the stupid. But then it occurs to me that, no matter how I were to mask the true identities of these people about whom rumors fly, or about whose orientation I’m unsure, or whose personal habits and idiosyncrasies perplex me… if they happened upon my site, they would undoubtedly realize I’d been blogging about them.
Telling my husband or my friends about my co-workers is one thing; they don’t know any of these people, will never see them, and likely may never even meet them. But postings on the internet have a way of getting back to people, and I’m not prepared to get Dooced just to share my confusion about the girl who always runs across the parking lot after work, or gossip about a former temp, or show pity for a given co-worker’s physical challenges, or describe exactly how easy it would be for a bank employee to be generally scandalous, or what-have-you.
And that’s really too bad. There’s some weird shit that goes on here sometimes.