Coming to you live, from the cerebruthalymus gland

A week ago the new coworkers finally had the opportunity to ask me (with feigned indifference) what I used to do — you know — before I started here.

Obviously group think had been itching to ask... because the half-lidded eyeballs dozing around the boardroom table suddenly opened wide to fixate on the invisible zit growing between my eyes. I sweated as they waited patiently for my zit to forage a pleasant response.

And damned if I didn't start to do exactly what I told myself not to do: make them feel uncomfortable by taunting their secure sphere of knowing.

Honestly. I had intended on giving them a sweet and blushing Violet spiel that would not expose my "real" personna. But as I started listing my work — or lack thereof — history, I could feel that daemon seed start to blossom in my cerebruthalymus gland.

We'd like to interupt this inner monologue for a special announcement from Violet's cerebruthalymus gland — live and uncensored: Violet hates being all business. She is disgusted by cute little terms like "blue skying" and can't believe that people take themselves seriously at work. Even though she loathes tidy desks, she is fine with cubicles. This single personna, you all seem to have? Don't you have many? A treasure trunk full? No? Just one? Really? How fascinating.

It's always so distracting, this daemon lurking in my grey mass — here I am, trying to communicate with the outer world, trying hard to talk sense and speak in their native tongue, and bam! the seed begins chirping on like a physical itch hurling itself headlong into my voicebox, causing me to choke on my pleasant and elegiac words.

I might even suggest the word possessed. How come I always allow myself to become possessed by the niggling desire to watch a person or crowds' response to information they may not fully comprehend? Flabberghasted and dumbfounded should not be my power words.

Like an errant exclaimation point, I punctuate my work history with a reveal: I write a blog. They stare at me, shocked and awed. I continue to ignore the gap, growing ever wider between me and them. (Ah, the force: now my cerebruthalymus gland has all the power it needs to take over.)

I'm absolutely dumbfounded by their response. Can you believe that in a workplace of sixty, I am the only one who has a blog? Bejeeze. I assumed everyone had one. I figured it wasn't a big thing. To top it off, I mentioned that I am the webmistress for an online lifestyle magazine. More big eyes. Boy this Internet machine is mysterious to some. Who knew?

I gather my wits and decide to end this conversation now, before I say something really curious. So I politely mention that my blog has nothing to do with work and guarantee them that I have no interest in writing about my co-workers or my work experiences. Eyes glaze.

"Why don't you write about work?" one asks in an almost offended tone.

Mwaaah ha ha screams my cerebruthalymus gland: "I now have the power, you cannot control me."

"Well," I paused, "because the whole goal of maintaining a blog is to retain a part of my identity that I choose not to show at work. I'm trying to keep parts of my identity separate so they continue to thrive and grow..." and, quite honestly, though you're all so very nice, you're also all truly boring.

(As my cerebruthalymus gland is chatting pseudo-philosophically away to my agog coworkers, I am telling the little fucker that I intend to order a full labotomy at lunch. My cerebruthalymus gland continues on, unphased by my idle threat.)

"What do you mean you have different identities — like multiple personalities?" dude asks.

"It's now called dissociative identity disorder," I reply, mentally smack my facturrets head, and continue on full throttle , "Oh, you know," (why do I always assume they do), "because work can numb all that you've worked to become," (smack. smack. smack.)

Life's my science experiment, but I always end up the guinea pig. Funny thing is, this time my cerebruthalymus gland did good. Seemed to work. I have gained a weird respect, not a weird moniquer.

Maybe it's because I no longer care if I get fired.