Monday, August 18, 2014

The Trials and Tribulations of Being a Hobbit Magnet

The kind of men who usually line up to date me,
look like something that crawled out of the shire,
as far as Middle Earth goes, there's actually plenty,
of men in the Fellowship I'd happily admire.
I'd give up on poetry and follow them to Mordor,
but those aren't the sort that come knocking on my door.
No those aren't the sort that climb down my chimney,
I get ginger-beards with pot-bellies that remind me of Gimli.
It gets awkward when they ask for a date,
because they remind me of this hobbit I hate...
Who took 'Hell No' to mean 'Hell Yes', because his hearing was damaged,
and he thought it was fate, because we're both vertically challenged.
See short men think my height is an open-invitation,
I'll map the hairs on their feet and end their frustration.
They sometimes salivate in the front row,
because perhaps they're sleeping or hoping to grow...
or they just don't have girls on their side of the Shire,
so now I'm on stage they think I'm for hire.
And hobbits are resilient, they don't understand never,
they think it's my way of being witty and clever.
So there's no point in telling a hobbit no,
they've a tendency to never let these things go...
But they're not as bad as the guy that looks like Gollum,
who looked in my eyes all regal and solemn,
and told me not to worry because he's broken too,
and I walked away because that's nothing new.
Then there's the men that try to act mysterious,
going hot and cold to get me delirious...
I guess in their heads they are channelling Aragorn,
but that ship has sailed and those shoes are worn.
The worst is a guy that reminds me of Gandalf,
one of those drama-kings that don't do anything by half.
He read me his poems by the light of the moon,
with what I assume was dementia, thinking I'd swoon.
I wanted to tell him he was as old as my granddad,
but I'm not the kind of girl that makes geriatrics feel bad.
My problem isn't that they're short, bald, dying or fat,
it's that I'm on stage to be listened to, not looked at.

Tuesday, August 5, 2014

The Great Escape (Part Five of my Dazzling Career as a Cold Caller)

The cold-calling thing didn't suit me. Two months into the job and I'd acquired record breaking status. Two solid months of calls and I had not sold or secured one useful piece of information. It's safe to say that my 0% success rate indicated my overall aptitude for the job, but I was the only person it appeared to bother.
Such was my lack of motivation that I barely blinked when they showed me the brochure I could send out to a client.
I developed new and invigorating ways not to get through to the people I was calling.
Then one day during a particularly long stint of ridiculously pointless phone calls my mobile rang. This is highly unusual, I rarely use the device for anything besides time-keeping.
I answered the phone was another job I'd applied for offering me the position.
I sat in shock. The end was finally here.
I was overwhelmed...
It took me sometime to gather all the various clothes I had strewn around my desk. It was about midday and as I looked around the office to proclaim violently that I was leaving I was faced with empty desks.
They couldn't even give me my victory march and to make matters worse it was another day before anyone noticed I had disappeared.

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