The Receptionist, Cyndi Griswinksi

For a spell after college I lived in a border city. The flashing sign indicating I approached a school zone purposely blocked by an overgrown tree, I was cited for speeding one sunny spring day. Because they placed financial gain, stemming from trickery, ahead of protecting innocent children, the instant my lease expired, I permanently moved across state lines. I never did business in the offending state again. At Christmastime, I mailed the treasurer a running total of how much that ticket cost his community.

Not letting go is a great way to let go. "Write it down and put it out of your mind because revenge will soon be obtained in a most satisfying way." This phrase, I habitually repeat, allows me to live in peace, for, despite my immense hatred of people, I'm extraordinarily happy.

When I step off the elevator every morning, the first 2-4 words out of each yap I pass physically hurt me. Having received no indication I approve, colleagues remove a letter from my last name, a last name of which I am exceedingly proud. They find it pleasing to call me "Murph," and the universe is full of those who act in accordance with their own desires.

"Hey, Murph."

"Yo, Murph."

"What up, Murph!"

And, yes, even, "How's it hanging, Murph."

I respond to each basterdized utterance of my surname with a smile as fake as the tan layering our receptionist.

Speaking of the receptionist . . . She is an exceptionally fetching, unashamedly busty, brunette of 23. As she is of her cleavage, Cyndi is enormously proud of her slightly large--by today's standards--posterior to which her tight trousers and short skirts draw attention. She's adequately friendly, though, were I occupying a similar position, not as hospitable as I'd be. Mastering a joyful expression when encountering strangers should be a priority when your job is to greet people.

Cyndi Griswinski is a spring chicken. Our interactions are minimal. Therefore, I primarily leave her alone. However, to further the illusion the curse refuses to discriminate, I inject a smidgen of misfortune into the life of everyone in the company.

Of course my goal is to have cause.

Last month, for example, following her failure to immediately inform me my lunch had arrived--the reason being it was imperative she conclude an important call which I later discovered had been placed to a trendy department store--I bought advertising space on a Russian language website where I offered a goose pimple inducing massage in exchange for a measly twenty American dollars. Potential clients were promised unprecedented tingles. Draping was optional. All they had to do was ring Cyndi.

The ad was posted at 11:00 PM on a Wednesday night. From a prepaid cellular, I called her at 11:30. Surprisingly she answered, screaming into the phone before I could utter a syllable, "Nyet speak-o Russian!"

I had no idea she was trilingual.

That Friday, our HR lady/office manager distributed a new phone list. Cyndi's portable number was updated. The young woman likely only suffered a semi-sleepless night plus a few minutes on the line with her wireless provider. I'm confident a language barrier prevented an understanding of all the vile requests she received.