No, not her. She's fine. Leave her out of it.
I'm talking to you.
What are you doing?
Yes! Yes, you're working. That's the problem.
There's MANY ways it could be a problem. Let's start with the big prize-winning issue.
YOU. HAVEN'T. LEFT. THIS. DESK. IN. DAYS.
No! No, there hasn't been an influx of- of- overdue books, or ruined ones, or- or WHATEVER. There hasn't been anything. I've checked the logs. Three times!
Which begs the question- what are you doing?
NOTHING?! Nothing, huh?
No. Nobody sits at their desk, typing and typing for three days straight. Nobody does that!
Don't deflect! I had an ACTUAL REASON. And it was only for ONE DAY. And I- My GOD, Janet, stay out of this, okay? It doesn't involve you. At all. Okay?
Nope! Shush. Just go, okay, Janet? Just go.
Yes! Yes, I had to be rude. I wasn't even THAT rude. I could've talked about her husband. I could've tossed her into a VERBAL OVEN. BUT I DIDN'T.
SEE? You've been in that chair for so long, you can't even remember the downfall of your cubicle-mate's- your cubicle-mate's; I mean, come on- marital life.
Oh, you won't even believe it. So, Janet's pregnant, right? (Shush. Don't interrupt.) And her husband's absolutely ecstatic. The way she tells it, he was hopping up and down, wrecking chairs, screeching... the whole deal. And Janet's wanted a baby, always. It's, like, her dream. Her mother-of-all-dreams.
What did I say about interrupting? Shush!
So, Janet goes to the baby-doctor. Apparently, this baby-doctor girl's a friend from highschool, and Janet is over the moon. She's going on and on and on about how it's fate, and how they're going to name the baby- it's a girl, by the way- after her friend, and how her friend and her husband get along so, so well. Blah, blah, blah.
But then it gets interesting. Janet's a predictably-late person; you know that, you practically live with her; but she's deciding to be an early bird, for the baby's sake. So she starts running, at six in the morning, and when she's passing by the coffee shop, what does she see? Her husband, at a coffee shop, with the baby-doctor.
Now, apparently, he played it off. Something about a baby-reveal party, or something- she fell for it, but then she came early for an appointment, too. And when she walked in, she says they were slobberin' all over each other.
Awesome, isn't it? Not for her, but the whole office-library branch is buzzing. They're getting a divorce, obviously, and she's naming the baby Devil, instead; but you know all about it. She's talked your ear off about what a jerk he is the past six hours, hasn't she?
No, it's not happening next month! It's next week. God. If I hadn't come in, you'd probably stay in this chair until you died. Died!
No, I wouldn't be happy if you died! I'd be wingman-less! Now, get up!
Yes! Yes, you are getting up! I don't care if you're 'this close to a breakthrough!' There's a Navy Yard two miles from here, and we're going to pick up some sailors!
You don't LIKE sailors? Who doesn't like sailors?!
Fine, then. We'll go down to the Radio Shack and pick up some geeks. Is that better?
Before you diss the geeks, you are one. You've been sitting in this chair for two days straight.
No, I'm not trying to say that you stink, but a shower would go over pretty well with those brace-faces.
Oh, C'MON! It's dark. It's late. It's a spicy, spicy time- or at least it's SUPPOSED to be. For you, it's just tap-tap-tappin' on the clickety-clackety keys.
You got the reference! God, I love you sometimes. And because of that love, we're going. Come on.
No! No, you will not sit in this chair, and type whatever it is you're typing. What are you typing?
Come on. Just let me see! If it's internet stalking, I won't judge you. I spent a solid hour scrolling down Toshi's page just last week. All of Toshi's pages.
Dude, what's worse than internet stalking? Just let me see! I won't tell. C'mon. Let me in. Open up.
Don't make me go all The Shining on you. I will wrestle that mouse out of your hands.
I won't tell anybody. I'll take it to my grave, man! Just let me see your page!
Fine. Fine. You made me do this.
SSH. Quit wailing. Somebody's gonna come, and we're both gonna be caught with the guilty weapon!
The computer's the guilty weapon. You should've been able to catch that. Without asking.
Don't get smart-alecky, okay? If you had gotten it, then I wouldn't have to do the dreaded- the dreaded- CTRL-H.
This changes things, doesn't it? Don't worry. We can erase it afterwards, but I want some leverage.
Oh-ho! I see some DM, some IM, some MM, some PM- really going all out with these messages, aren't we?
Oh, you've got to wait for the timestamps. That isn't fun. They should really get the newer models, you know? The ones with the FBI-type antennas and the WiFi that goes at the speed of light. I could really get some Minesweeper done if they put a bit of money into it. And your stalking could probably-
Ooh! Timestamps are loaded! Let's see, then.
... Dear God.
You spent seven hours on IM! And eight hours on MM! God, I think you hold the stalking record!
Yeah, yeah, I know I said I wouldn't judge, but girl, who are you messaging?
Yes, I'm gonna see! We're friends. It's my solemn duty to protect you from the lures of the Stalking Community.
... My. God.
JOSH?! You're spending hours- days, even- messaging JOSH?
... That does it. It's Snatch-a-Sailor-o'-clock, you got it? Go home, get dressed, take a shower. We're going down to the marina in thirty.
You still don't like sailors? God. Fine.
The plan's been revised. Take a shower, wear something fancy, and meet me outside of your house in... forty-five minutes, say.
You're supposed to know intuitively where we're going- I already told you, didn't I?
Yeah. Yeah, we are, 'cause you know what? No matter how low you are, there's always the geeks at the Radio Shack.
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i'd love to ramble about the creative process behind this story, but i can't. i'm running late for snatch-a-sailor-o'-clock.