customer service

*this blog may be copied and distributed for training purposes*
 

I am usually a pretty mellow person. It takes a while to light my fuse, but once it’s lit, IT’S FUCKING ON LIKE DONKEY KONG.

I understand the service industry sucks. From being a waitress to being a customer service rep. I get that people get pissed off and angry and irrational. I’ve taken my share of phone calls at work of people SCREAMING at me when things go sideways. I try *REALLY* hard not to be the screaming asshole.

Until I have to be.

Then I will scream and curse and light a mother fucker up.

Take my car for example. #fucktoyota

I bought a toyota a little over a year ago after my little passat got rear ended and totaled. The car buying process was TERRIBLE, but I bit my tongue. Then, two weeks later I got notice that the dealership had changed all my signed, sealed, delivered paperwork from a local credit union where I was preapproved, had the approval paperwork in hand, signed all the papers with the credit union name on them, to wells fargo because if the car dealership can match the terms and payments with another bank, they can switch the paperwork without asking. OH, and the car dealership gets a kick back for pushing paperwork to specific banks. I REFUSE, ABSOLUTELY REFUSE to do any banking with Wells Fargo.

So, I SCREAMED. I went on a twitter rant and landed in the office of the customer service rep at Toyota where I explained, politely, that I would drive my fucking car through their front fucking window if they didn’t fix it.

They fixed it. The gentleman was VERY nice. We ended up talking over a few different things and when he heard my reasoning for avoiding wells fargo he understood and told me he would talk to his sales team and make sure they understood my reasoning too and that a kick back isn’t always worth over writing the customer’s request just because you have the legal paperwork to back it up.

GREAT. THANK YOU. Well handled. Smoothed out. Happy(ish) customer again.

I’ve been driving the car for almost a year. And then I had a nail in the tire. At my next oil change I asked them to look at it. ALL I was told is they couldn’t repair it. No explanation. Nothing. Just that I need to take it to a tire shop.

I take my car into a tire shop where they explain that where the nail went through is unsafe to patch, technical talk, I needed a new tire. DO I WANT ANOTHER WINTER TIRE?

Wait. WHAT? I’ve been driving in winter tires SINCE I BOUGHT THE CAR? No one told me when I bought it that there were studless winter tires on it. _I_ don’t know the difference between a studless winter tire and an all season tire. So I drove winter tires, through unusually hot summer temperature, decreasing the life of the tire exponentially, because Toyota couldn’t be bothered to tell me either when I bought it, OR WHEN THEY LOOKED AT THE NAIL IN IT that it was a winter tire?

NOT. HAPPY. But shit happens. Bought a new tire (yes, just one, I know how bad it is) and went on my way.

At the last oil change I also let them know there’s a problem with my starter- not always, but often enough when I start my car it sounds like it’s already running- that sound when you try to start it but it’s already started? That grinding over-start noise? It does THAT.

They couldn’t find anything. To this day it STILL does it, but whatever. The theory of take a car to the mechanic…you’ll never get it to do what you need it to when there’s a chance for someone in the know to hear it. I’ll just have to take a video every time I start my car until I can catch it making the noise clear enough for them to diagnose.

So then last week I get a call: there are two recall items that I need to bring my car in for. When can I make it in.

I tell them I’ll check my schedule and call them back.

The next day I call back to schedule and I’m told there are no recall items on my car.

Wait. WHAT? What the fuck?

The gal calls me back late that afternoon- OH WAIT. Just kidding. There are 2 recall items. When can I bring my car in?

Between work, kid baseball, life, the only time I can make it in during their hours is on a Saturday.

So. Saturday (one week ago) I take my car in for two recall items. AND, while it’s here, the starter is still not right, and now there’s a grinding sound- like metal on metal when your brakes are worn out, but it’s NOT when I press on my brakes and it only happens under 20 mph.

My hour appointment (their time table) takes almost 2 hours, but I don’t mind because I figure it means they found what the noise is and are fixing it. There’s also a nice older gentleman in the waiting room that I had an interesting conversation with.

They bring back my keys and tell me the recall items are done: airbag cable and computer update. They couldn’t get the starter to make any noise and they couldn’t hear any noise from anywhere else while driving it.

Me: did you check all the brakes and tires? I just had one rear tire replaced, could that be causing it?

Tech: we checked all the brakes and tires and didn’t see anything.

Well. Fuck.

So I take my keys, get in my car, and first thing notice my steering wheel is jacked up. There’s a huge gap all the way around the air bag cover and it looks like it’s not sitting on right. I try to press it down which makes the horn go off which is embarrassing as fuck, so I head home.

GUESS WHAT NOISE THE CAR MAKES ALL THE WAY HOME?

Then, NEW FUN, as I pull into my drive way and turn the wheel a full turn, now there’s a fun dragging noise- it sounds like a cable wrapped in wire mesh being dragged across plastic. THAT WASN’T THERE BEFORE.

Monday I call the dealership and tell them what’s going on. The guy on the phone says to bring it back in. OK. WHEN? Well, we close at 4. OH. So you want me to take time off work so you can fix your screw up. not happy. He tells me it’s an easy fix. He knows exactly what the mechanic did. OH. SO THIS HAS HAPPENED BEFORE? ENOUGH THAT YOU KNOW EXACTLY WHAT HAPPENED BEFORE YOU LOOK AT IT? That’s not encouraging.

Tuesday I get off work early, get to the dealership as close to 4 as I can, pull in the bay, it’s making the grinding noise LOUD AS FUCK which echoes off the walls and the same service tech guy as Saturday says: “oh, is that the noise?”

THAT SUPER LOUD GRINDING? YES, THAT’S THE NOISE. BUT, I’m actually here for the airbag. I told the guy on the phone it’s making a dragging noise when I turn the wheel a full turn.

15 minutes.

FIFTEEN FUCKING MINUTES.

Tech: We fixed the airbag cover, and that grinding noise is your brakes. The cover on the brakes that helps keep them quiet is misaligned and rubbing on the rotor.

Me: *deep breath* did you fix it?

Tech: no. that would take, like an hour.

Me: so now what?

Tech: you’ll have to bring it back in.

Me: ok. How much will that cost?

Tech: well, since you just bought the car not too long ago I’ll see if I can do it for no charge.

Me: ok. So when can I bring it back in.

Tech: well, I’m booked all Saturday morning.

Me: SO DO YOU HAVE SATURDAY AFTERNOON AVAILABLE?

Tech: yeah. I could probably get you in around 1.

Me: *deep breath* ok. Well put me down for one then.

How did it take them only 15 minutes to find the problem this time when last time I specifically asked them to check those specific parts and they didn’t find anything??

Ok. Well. Shit happens. Everyone has an off day. I’ll just come back Saturday and get it all fixed.

So I drive home. And I pull into my garage. And what do I hear? THE SAME DRAGGING NOISE IN THE STEERING COLUMN.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?? SO WHAT THE FUCK DID THEY JUST “FIX”????

And so I go on a twitter rant.

Because it’s what I do.

TOYOTA gets back to me: “did a local service rep get in touch with you?”

NOPE.

Yesterday I do get a call from the local customer service gal, (knock, knock, knock) Penny.

I’m not the smartest person on earth. Not even close. But I do understand a few things. I understand that when you tell me you’ve been in the business for 20 years as a customer service rep and now you’re handling social media that means social media got dumped on you because no one knew what to do with it INCLUDING YOU. Google is almost 18 years old. Twitter is only 10 years old. Facebook isn’t even that old (I know because I have tweets pop up in timehop about switching over to facebook).

So. What you’re saying is: you have no idea what to do with me.

LET ME TELL YOU WHAT NOT TO DO:

#1: don’t accuse the person who’s already pissed off of “posting anonymously so no one can respond.”

BITCH, PLEASE. My twitter handle is my name. my avatar it a picture of me from less than a month ago. My profile has a link to my facebook page which has ALL my contact information. TWO CLICKS and you can find out EVERYTHING about me that you need to know. TWO CLICKS. That is FAR from anonymous. also, YOUR customer account has ALL my information. You have my name. you know what day I was in. you know exactly what repairs I’m complaining about. Is it THAT HARD to look at my customer account and get my information? yes, I’ll grant you, twitter is an online forum which is seen as anonymous to many people, but, since I’m one of the lucky people that cries when I get extremely pissed off, I didn’t want to be the screaming, cursing, crying customer standing in the store making EVERYONE uncomfortable. Pretty sure they don’t want that either.

#2: don’t tell me how great your brand is.

Don’t tell me that you’ve monitored by the toyota corporation and the larry h miller corporation and the better business bureau. ALL THAT TELLS ME IS YOU HAVE A BETTER LEGAL TEAM. It tells me that customers are shut down because you have a contract that backs you up when work is done incorrectly, or when your team screws up, or when any number of things happens. It ALSO tells me that I you think I’m full of shit. All your other customers are shitting rainbows, what’s my problem? It ALSO tells me that you’re so busy defending yourself, you’re not listening to me.

I try to explain to you that simple things: a multi-point inspection sheet being incorrectly filled out is a sign of a bigger problem. Your tech filled out the multi-point inspection form and marked NOTHING wrong with my car. Including the little windshield wiper box. Little green box checked: everything is A-OK.

EXCEPT THAT I KNOW MY REAR WIPER BLADE IS FALLING APART AND THE PLASTIC IS LITERALLY HANGING OFF IT. I know it’s worn out. It’s been worn out for months. I’m too lazy to stop at a store and buy a new one. I didn’t need them to tell me it was worn out. BUT THE FACT THEY CHECKED IT AS OK MEANS THEY DIDN’T LOOK AND DIDN’T DO THEIR JOB RIGHT. Something as simple as a wiper blade being over looked or, worst case, lied about, HOW CAN I TRUST YOUR COMPANY ON BIG THINGS IF THEY LIE ABOUT LITTLE THINGS?

#3 don’t talk down to me.

I don’t know that you have techs AND mechanics. All I know is I drive my car into the bay, hand my keys to a guy, and the same guy brings my keys back and tells me everything they did (or, in this case, pretended to do). DON’T BE A SNOBBY SHIT WHEN I CALL THEM ALL MECHANICS. After I’ve explained everything in as much detail as possible, TWICE, don’t say “well, help me out here.” THAT’S WHAT I’VE BEEN DOING. Don’t patronize me, don’t, again, try to tell me how great your brand is. Don’t try to sell me on your bullshit concern.

So. I have another appointment. I get to waste another Saturday afternoon in the shop. My car gets to be worked on for the THIRD TIME in ONE WEEK.

Tell you what, if it isn’t all done correctly this time, there will be ZERO question about anonymity. I WILL be the screaming, cursing, probably crying customer IN PERSON. FOR ALL THE OTHER CUSTOMERS TO HEAR.

Insult to injury: as I’m explaining all this to a friend, he asks: why do you keep taking your car back there? You know you can take it into ANY Toyota shop, right?

WHAT FRESH FUCKERY IS THIS? I took it into these assholes intent on fucking me without lube because they’re the ones that called about the recall. There’s a Toyota dealership literally ACROSS THE STREET from my work. I could have taken it into there?? I’m going to call the one across the street today to see if they can do the oil changes that were part of my purchase agreement and, honestly, even if they can’t, I’m still going to take it there from now on just to NOT go back to the same assholes ever again.

fuck toyota. fuck larry h miller.

this is my car. this is how i get back and forth to work. this is how i pick the kid up from baseball and go grocery shopping. how safe do i feel driving a car that's had the air bag worked on THREE TIMES IN ONE WEEK? pretty sure i'd rather go on a date to a mariners game (too soon?) maybe i can trade this car in for a duck boat. i don't know if it's because i'm female. i don't know if it's because they treat all their customers like shit. i don't know if it's because they're terrible mechanics or because they think they can get away with it.

all i know is FUCK YOU. this is my car. i'm paying a fuck ton of my money, every month, for this car. i want it to be safe. i want it to work properly. i want broken things to be fixed, RIGHT, THE FIRST TIME.

i want to be heard as a customer. i want to be listened to by the mechanics.

what i REALLY want is to drive my car through the fucking plate glass window at the dealership, get my loan cancelled, get my original down payment back, and go find ANYONE ELSE to buy a different car from.

but i don't have bail money. and i don't want to have to buy another car.

and then...

we have a customer at work that has a fairly large account balance. every week, like clockwork, he sends in his payment, and every week, no exceptions, his payment is folded neatly in a piece of yellow legal paper.

because...i don't know really. they make security envelopes. it gets delivered to a po box. there's really not much risk now days of someone stealing what they think *may* be a check from a po box.

BUT. whatever the reason, every week, check folded up in a piece of yellow legal paper.

i decided to start saving the yellow legal paper.

because, why not? it just seems wasteful to throw away a black piece of papers whose only job so far has been to prevent the theft of a perfectly secure check.

and i decided somewhere along the way, wouldn't it be funny to use the saved paper to write a story? something ironic about someone who is struggling to pay their bills but is wasteful in every other manner in life.

SHUT UP. IT IS NOT A BIOGRAPHY.

well, maybe.

anyway. saving paper. writing a story.

BUT WAIT. i already threw away half the pages. well, some of them anyway. so...do i have to start the story part of the way through? like a manuscript whose first few pages have been lost throughout the process?

we join this story already in progress...

AND THEN i had the though, wouldn't it be fun to write a whole bunch of stories that start half way through? or end half way through?

because let's be honest: i'm too lazy to write a whole fucking story. i'm great at starting stories. i have a whole fucking portfolio of half started stories with great characters that i lost interest in. it happens.

and as soon as i had this idea (and a few more hits) the ideas started pouring in along with some fucking fantastic one liners.

and so that's what i'm going to do. i'm going to start a series of half started and half finished stories. and they'll force the reader to create the ending. or the beginning. and what's better than making someone else do your work for you?

it's so fantastically fucking egotistical to think that not only would someone want to read a story (half story) i wrote, but that they would take the time to craft their own ending to it as well.

i'm super excited. i'll probably throw most of them up on here since i have little to no patience and pretending to wait until i have enough compiled to make an actual book sounds like it would take forever, and what good is a story if people can't read it.

so. that's the plan. and i'm already crafting excuses as to why it will be a half finished collection of half stories.

it'll be great.

memories don't always haunt

yesterday was supposed to be steak and crown royal day but whatever asshole is in charge of the budget around my house cut corners a little too close this paycheck and so instead it was meatloaf day. (oh, that's me. oops).

steak and crown day is a celebration i (try) to do every year to mark my dad's birthday. he used to come to town every year and take me out for my birthday, so now i like to drink and devour to honor his birthday. it will happen this weekend for sure...i'm sure he won't mind a few days difference as long as i double the crown consumption. happy 61st birthday dad. maybe i'll have a cigar too...

life is all about balance after all.

so. meatloaf day means left over meatloaf lunch the next day.

i warmed up said lunch at work today and one of the guys asked how i make it and the biggest key to my meatloaf (which is really nothing fancy) is using my grandmother's meatloaf pan. it was passed on to me after she died and i've never seen another like it and it will stay in my cupboards until someone has to pry it out of my dead hands. well, i probably won't die HOLDING IT. but you know...maybe. (it's really simple- basically two bread pans stacked on each other with holes drilled in one so the grease drips out.)

but actually thinking about the meatloaf pan made me try to remember how long ago she passed away. I don't remember how long ago, and i don't remember how, but i DO KNOW she was around long enough to see my youngest kiddo born. so...less than 13 years ago.

HERE'S HOW I KNOW.

my second birth was not great. i was induced TWICE for 48 hours. the first time they sent me home to wait another week, the second ended in an emergency c-section, a near death experience, and a whole lot of crazy. the WHOLE TIME i was in the hospital, i was being yelled at by my ex-husband for taking to long. i mean, HE TOOK TIME OFF WORK FOR THIS. now the ex part makes even more sense i'm sure.

the other person who stuck it out the most at the hospital with me was my grandma. she stayed in my room with me, helped buffer the mood, and was pretty mellow overall. at one point she noticed i didn't have any nursing bras and so she decided that would be her baby gift.

the conversation went something like this:

gma: "what size nursing bra will you need?"

me: "i'm not sure. it's definitely different than last time, i really don't know."

gma: "well, you look like you're about as big as me, so i'll get you a DD."

at this point i'm pretty sure i blushed and looked anywhere but at my grandma because for the first time in my life i suddenly realized: HOLY SHIT, GRANDMA IS STACKED. which is an awkward realization at best. ESPECIALLY when you consider i was getting ready to run a full production milk farm and she was just that way ALL THE TIME.

memories like that don't haunt you. memories like that, as weird and awkward as they are make me laugh. those are the good ones. remembering my dad calling me on st. patrick's day telling me he hasn't had enough to drink because he's still not peeing green. remembering my brother calling me on my birthday like he was ordering tacos.

remembering the things that make me smile instead of crawl in a corner and cry for the rest of the day.

not all memories haunt you. plenty do, but not all.

domestification of a rabbid squirrel

i have a date tonight.

well, maybe anyway. we already rearranged tuesday to wednesday, then had to rearrange wednesday to thursday.

par for the course.

BUT. any time i have a date, there's this stubborn, resilient, inextinguishable stupid little flame of hope that resides somewhere among the cobwebs in the "relationship" part of my brain that says "...but what if this one works out?"

then the rest of my brain laughs and laughs and makes a few snide comments, replays some of the more spectacular blooper reels from the various train-wrecks over the years and we go back to being our normal, bitter, hopeless, non-romantic self.

but.

that stupid fucking little flame is fucking stubborn and stay around, no matter what.

and once in a while when i'm bored, the oxygen whistling through my ears fans the flame and it gets a little bigger and starts to do shadow puppet shows.

but it doesn't know how the story goes.

so the puppet shows are confusing at best.

i'm holding out for a call from tarantino for the option on some of them...

but in those sad little puppet shows, there's a struggle to figure out what the fuck domestification would really look like.

it starts out really basic: where the fuck would a significant other keep their clothes? my drawers and closet are full.

would they want to bring their own furniture into my house? FUCK NO. i like all my shit. there's no room for a barcalounger here chandler.

how would getting ready for work in the mornings go? i have a very dialed in routine. DON'T MESS WITH MY ROUTINE.

and what about getting ready for bed at night? do i have to actually let them see me without make up?

what about the nights when i have insomnia and binge watch netflix in bed? will i have to do that on the couch? will they sleep on the couch?

who get the last glass of milk? who has to run to the store on a saturday morning when you realize you're out of coffee?

i almost talk myself out of even going on a date because if one ever does go well, THEN WHAT? ugh. would i have to wash boy underwear in the laundry? the kid does his own now. boy laundry is gross.

THESE ARE IMPORTANT ISSUES.

i'm used to my space being my space. i tolerate the kid mess because i'm genetically responsible for it. it still annoys me though. HOW HARD IS IT TO NOT STICK YOUR SOCKS IN THE COUCH CUSHIONS?

what if i want to read a book and they want to do something? what if i want to do something and they think it's lame. WHAT IF THEY PUT KETCHUP ON THEIR EGGS??

ugh.

is it too late to cancel? again?

should i stay or should i go

i used to have a gypsy soul.

i used to not necessarily look forward to moving, but i did enjoy the process of settling into a new place; decorating, making it mine, making all my odd bits and pieces fit into as many different configurations as possible. like a never ending tetris of furniture and stuff: level up: two bedroom apartment: complete. next challenge: three bedroom house. three bedroom house: complete: back to a two bedroom apartment with no dining room: GO!

on and on it went. 13 moves in 13 years. i had boxes labeled in storage that listed exactly what went in each one. at one point i packed and moved a 2 bedroom townhouse while 3 months pregnant in less than 8 hours. BAM. bonus points (well, with help, so maybe not ALL the bonus points.)

i've lost my gypsy soul. i've become lazy or scared or both.

considering different prospects right now is terrifying and exhausting instead of challenging and energizing. as much as i hate/love my house, the thought of leaving it makes my gut twist more than i would expect. i sat in my kitchen the other night contemplating what moving would mean and with a clear view of floors that need repair, walls that are crooked, mouse traps set because 115 year old rock foundations are a neon invitation to the dirty bastards, knowing the carpet upstairs needs replaced because dog, thinking that eventually the roof will need redone, how much work the yard needs, how badly the whole garage needs to burn to the ground and start over...even with the never ending home owners list running through my head, IT'S MINE. warts and all, i can do whatever i want and answer to only me.

aside from the physical logistics of more crap than any two people need, there's STUFF. there's kid sports and friends. there's favorite bars and music venues. i don't go out much, but when i do i know my safe places. I DON'T WANT TO HAVE TO FIND NEW ONES. there's familiar restaurants, stores that i know exactly how to find what i need. i don't have a close circle of people, but i do have fringe people that let me hover. i don't want to have to find new hovering people.

and i KNOW. a new city, a new place would be new people, new sports, new school for the kid, away from these assholes i have to fight with constantly. different city would have different music. different beer. i would get to know the stores, i would get to know the restaurants.there would be new and different opportunities. new things to explore and see.

BUT I'M COMFORTABLE HERE.

and i'm really, REALLY fighting with the core issue: am i going to let a few assholes chase me away? i feel like it would be giving up. it's not terrible ALL THE TIME. it's just particularly terrible when it is. but do i just let them win? do i just let them keep being assholes and not stand up for myself and defend all the shit they rail against?

i'm only bi. i'm passable. i have kids. i can blend. obviously. since they run their mouths. it's not like i'm trapped in a closet completely denying who i am or having to hide everything about my life away from this desk. so, SO many people have had to endure much worse. how many people in the military had to live their whole career in fear of being found out? how many people in every day jobs had to go along with jokes and rants because no one could find out. i'm not in danger. they wouldn't hurt me if i flat out said I'M BI AND WHEN YOU SAY YOU WOULD NEVER LET A GAY PERSON AROUND YOUR FAMILY, YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT ME ASSHOLE. AND GUESS WHO TALKED TO YOUR WIFE AT THE CHRISTMAS PARTY ALREADY? I ALREADY GOT BY BI COOTIES ON HER. HA HA HA. JUST A MATTER OF TIME NOW. i'm not a professional athlete that would lose millions in contracts or promotions. i'm not a public figure that could lose an acting career or appearances. i'm just a secretary, sitting at a desk, with a few assholes that like to rant every now and again. am i really going to let that disrupt my whole life?

am i so scared of change that i'm making excuses and convincing myself i can stick it out? i mean- I LIKE MY JOB. i'm good at it. i have my routine down. i'm comfortable. i have my groove. i have my schedule set, i can take time off when i need for kid appointments. i have retirement, insurance. my tattoos are ok here. i can change my hair and no one even notices. i KNOW the stupidity i'm surrounded by. another place could have a whole new unknown, worse breed of stupidity.

bucket kicking is happening. i just don't know what i'd do if i actually found a bucket with something in it.

basic theory of invisibility

i'm invisible. or rather i have the power of invisibility- the power to make people completely forget i exist in general, or at least forget that i can hear, have needs, or possess basic human feelings.  

one or two things can be overlooked. after the evidence starts to pile up it becomes harder to ignore. when people insult you RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU, but not directly at you, you can no longer pretend it's not an issue.

a mother not noticing that you need glasses until a teacher intervenes.
not being taught to shave your legs until your brother is so embarrassed he begs for someone to teach you.
not getting your first bra until (again) a teacher brings it to parental attention. (keeping in mind that 3rd-6th grade were all male teacher. bless them for the awkward they had to endure).

those things can be dismissed as markers of a crappy childhood. 

being intentionally passed over for promotions.
batting 0.000 on ALL dating sites.
not having plans for the 152nd friday in a row.

you start to wonder but chalk it up to lack of a social network or not marketing yourself in the "right" way.

a co-worker sitting in your office, less than 2 feet away complaining about "...single moms with two kids that file their taxes and get more money back than they ever put in and are working the system and ruining it for everyone else."

or

"...i would never let someone that was gay into my house. can you imagine having them around my kids or my wife? not even the cable guy. i would just say i changed my mind and don't want the service any more."

those are a little harder to ignore. those are fucking impossible to ignore. those are directly indirect shots. either they're that wrapped up in their own hate and prejudices that they honestly have NO CLUE what they're saying applies to someone RIGHT NEXT TO THEM, or they don't care, and i am invisible to them in that moment.


so. how should i use my powers of invisibility??

because of, or hand in hand with invisibility comes, for me at least, the painful lack of social skills. what's the point of going out when you're invisible? when the only person in the bar that talks to you is the bartender, isn't it better to save money and drink a beer at home on your own couch? when you go to a packed concert hall and don't talk to a single person...when you have people lean over your or push you out of the way to talk to the person right next to you...when you sit alone in a restaurant and the waiter keeps passing by your table...when you run all your weekend errands and don't see one person you know.

being invisible is lonely. you crave social interaction. conversations that require words more than one syllable. topics that make you think and challenge and debate. you want more than the 2 minutes of coffee shop drive through fluff. you need more than the latest update on what new fad is happening in jr. high. you NEED to be seen and heard and to exist for a small space.

therein lies the theory of the comfort of strangers- you're more open to talking about ANYTHING with a complete stranger because IF you ever see them again, it will be so far removed they (probably) won't remember anything. also, it's your ONE chance to connect, so you want to fucking JAM PACK that small window with as much of locked up stuff that once the flood gates are open there's no going back. so you over share. all the things that socially normal people know not to let out. all the awkward and inappropriate topics, stories, happening. you become THAT person. the one people tolerate because maybe there's a good story in it. you become the weird person which, well, true, but just a small part of the tip of the iceberg. but you almost don't care, because at least for a moment, someone saw and heard you (but you do care, because no one WANTS to be the weird person).

there's also the awkward problem of never knowing when to make an exit. if you're smart enough you set a timer for a parking meter and actually care about not getting a ticket. some of us aren't that smart. or don't care. or are willing to take the ticket for just a few more minutes of being out of the house and around people. you get so excited for the rare outing, the glimmer of humanity that you become the last man standing. you stay until the bitter end. it's never great. it's always a giant bucket of awkward. but it's your small portal. your moment of non-invisibility. your blink of existence. and you desperately don't want it to end. so you're stuck in the worst catch 22- extend the awkward or extend the invisible?

there are perks to invisibility. every super power has to have the good with it somewhere. when you're invisible you get to see the real side of people much faster. they let their guard down because they forget you're there or don't care. you hear their real thoughts and opinions. you hear their real words, not the gloss they usually spin. when you do have a conversation- a REAL one, not an awkward overshare moment, it's much deeper and more real than most conversations. you broach topics that normally wouldn't come up. the comfort of strangers works both ways.

but you go through life as a shadow of existence. you're a passing flash of an image, easily forgotten and frequently overlooked. you want to be in the light, but it seems to be either a blinding spotlight or a half burnt out night light. neither is optimal. there must be a balance somewhere in between, but i'll be damned if i've found it in my 35 years.

the bonus to being mostly invisible is the ability to develop a harder shell. not impenetrable, but much stronger, much more efficient for letting things roll off of. i know comments aren't directly about me, because they don't see me. i know they're not purposefully leaving me out, they just forgot i was there. the number of fucks given about any particular thing drops well below the national average because what does it matter anyway? but as all swords do, this has a second edge. i've developed a much stronger sense of bitch. i've learned to push people away and reject them before they reject me. you can't fire me, i quit logic. i'd rather be the heartless bitch than the weird weakling. i know i can't ever ask for help because that proves that single mothers are failures. we are a drain on the system. we are screwing it up for everyone else. i'll do what i can myself and leave the rest before i dare ask for help.

i'll stay alone in the darkest corner before i reach out and burden others. no one wants that. no one deserves that. you didn't see anyone else willingly jumping into the swamp of sadness for a fucking spa day. no one wants the depressing, pessimistic crap. fuck. i don't even want it. so i'm sure as fuck not going to spread the anti-joy. debbie downer parties alone because not every party needs a pooper.

so i stay home. alone. depressed, defeated, invisible. its so fucking exhausting working up the effort to go out when you know it will be a bucket full of awkward. but i try. there's inappropriate conversations and awkward attempts at humanity. there's a few fun-house horror show interactions. vague attempts to step out. but mostly there's invisibility.

have you ever tried to find an invisible person in the dark?