A reason to go postal

I hate elevator chat. Hate it. I am that guy who refuses to interact with people on the elevator. Asshole? Sure.

One morning this week (the days are melting together), I got on the elevator on the first floor. There were already four riders inside. They must have all come from the ground floor, or are crazy and just enjoy riding the elevator.

As I get on, I smile politely and press “3.” Almost immediately, a woman to my right says, “this elevator doesn’t stop on the 3^rd floor, only the 4^th.” “What?,” I say, rudely. “This elevator only goes to the 4^th floor.”

It was only then did I notice that only the 4^th floor button was lit up.

Then a douche chimed in from the back of the elevator: “I guess we can make an exception today and stop on the third.” Laughter ensued. Not from me.

“I hope so,” I say.

Finally, the elevator stopped and the door opened. I walked out.

I’d kill myself if I worked on the 4^th floor. Or, I’d have to start taking the stairs.

Labels: fuck, life, me, stress, work