Some of my friends at work have nicknamed a coworker “Serial Killer.” Serial Killer is a greasy, skinny guy who always wears sunglasses. I assume they’re prescription glasses, but they are tinted so darkly that there’s no telling what the guy’s eyeballs are like. The frames are big and round and light colored. Beige or tan, I’d say. An abrupt contrast to the black lenses. I don’t know why he selected frames from the brown family because he always has a gray shirt on. Wait, that’s not true. Sometimes he wears a black t-shirt.
He just stuck his head in my office with no preamble and yelled, “ARE YOU ERICA?”
One, he scared a year off my life. I’m working here, dude. Concentrating. Don’t just yell at me!
Two, and I don’t mean to sound bratty or snotty, but in a company of fewer than 30 people in this office, about 83 of them know that I am not, in fact, Erica. I’ve been here for 3.5 years, which really isn’t very long compared to everyone else here. But I’ve grown up with a majority of people who work here because they’ve all worked for my dad in some form for, oh, about 25 years. How odd the feeling of anonymity.
Three, does Erica have Direct TV and Tivo? I don’t think so! And I just got it this weekend, so I’m definitely not Erica.
Odes to Tivo to be composed forthwith.