I Can't Think Of A Title For This One

I was at a works drinks thing last night and it was nice. I'm a bit reclusive and aloof at work (I like to think of it as being mysterious) and I sort of developed a theory that everyone at work doesn't like me and thinks I'm a snob and a twat and I also thought no one liked the writing that I do for the mag, but it turns out that most of that is wrong.

Anyway, one of the people who I hardly know offered to get me a beer and then they forgot and when I got it myself they said sorry, and I have this thing where I get all hurt and let's-not-make-a-drama-about-thisie, and I tell the person something like, "Fuck you. It's all right. Fuck you. You can just get fucked."

I sometimes forget that the person I am doing it to should ideally be someone I've known for more than half an hour because I'm reasonably sure she didn't realise I was just being silly.

It's like the time The Dreaded One and I were at this slightly hokey pizza place in Byron Bay. We were waiting to be seated and I looked around and realised it was a bit of a theme restaurant, and I quietly said, "I'm not sure about this."

"You want to go somewhere else?" she replied pleasantly.

"No," I replied like I was really angry and at the end of my tether. "We'll eat here, it had just better be really fucking good."

We knew I was just being faux cranky, but Mr Family Man standing next to us didn't. He tried to melt me with death beam eyes. It was pretty funny. I think he couldn't understand why The Dreaded One didn't slap me across the face. Apparently he looked like he wanted to slap me across the face. I was oblivious. The Dreaded One told me how appalled he had been when we sat down.

Also, how's this - the other day when I was going on about how the funniest person on the internet said I was "an excellent funnyman"? Turns out it was a case of mistaken identity. Poo.