Germy Gina: Glazed and Confused: Monday’s Meltdown Part 16
Germy Gina Chronicles
Gina stomped into the office with the energy of a woman scorned and wronged like some tragic heroine whose great deeds went unappreciated. Her heels clicked aggressively against the floor as she marched into the intake office practically radiating wounded martyrdom.
She stopped short at Julie’s desk, arms crossed, chin tilted like she was preparing to deliver a TED Talk titled "The Betrayal of Benevolence." Julie didn’t even look up from her screen. “You’re stomping louder than a toddler in light-up Sketchers. What’s the damage this time?” I continued to type nonsense into my email. As I just knew Julie had entered the library and was about to do an in person read on Gina.
Gina exhaled loudly, the sigh of a woman who had tried. And tried. And been spat upon by fate. “I just think,” Gina began, voice quivering with the kind of theatrical restraint reserved for community theater, “that when someone goes out of their way, out of their way, Julie to bring peace offerings to the savages in this office, the least they could do is pretend to be grateful. Maybe nibble on a donut. Maybe acknowledge the gesture.”
Julie clicked her mouse three times, unfazed. “Savages usually accept food, Gina. That's like, day one Anthropology.” Gina’s jaw dropped, scandalized. “Are you saying it’s my fault? Because I chose to be generous in an environment of intestinal espionage and hostility?” Julie leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers like a cartoon villain. “I’m saying maybe when you turn a glazed donut into a protest sign about bowel movements, it gets...less appetizing.”
Gina threw her hands up dramatically, nearly knocking over Julie’s coffee. “It was satire, Julie. Artistic expression!” Julie deadpanned, “Pretty sure satire still needs to be funny. Not just...sad and mildly alarming.” Gina clutched her chest like she’d taken a bullet. “You know what? It’s fine. It’s fine. Next time I’ll just bring in nothing. I’ll let all of you rot in your passive aggressive, carb-starved little misery corner while I take my kindness elsewhere.”
Julie smiled sweetly, all teeth and no soul. “Perfect. One less way for this place to give us salmonella.” Gina blinked rapidly, muttering something about “uncultured ingrates” and “the death of community spirit” as she flounced away toward her desk, pulling out her phone probably to write a fiery Notes App manifesto.
Julie watched her, sipped her coffee, and muttered under her breath, “Better luck next time.”
