(Due to living through some really messed up stuff, I have an incredibly high pain tolerance, and avoid asking for help if it’s something I can do myself. Combine that with the fact that I am a massive klutz, and you get someone that consistently injures themselves (frequently at work), fixes it as best they can, and just shrugs it off as nothing. I have once again managed to hurt myself, resulting in about a two-inch long gash on my forearm. It’s not too deep, but it needs stitches. I can and have stitched myself up from similar injuries in the past, using sewing needles and fishing line. I am in the middle of doing this, when a coworker I will refer to as “Work Mom” walks into my office.)

Work Mom: “Hey, [My Name], my computer is having iss— WHAT THE H*** ARE YOU DOING?!”

(I do not stop stitching as I speak with her.)

Me: “Oh, I just got a little cut, and am sewing myself back up. I’ll be right as rain in a minute. So what’s going on with your computer?”

Work Mom: “No. No, no, no. How are you not screaming? You are coming with me to the walk-in right now!”

Me: *stops stitching* “I really don’t think that’s necessary. I’ve done this before, and I’ll be fine.”

Work Mom: “I’m calling medical, then you are going to the doctor. You do not have a choice in this, you crazy b****!”

(I give up, as arguing at this point is futile. I walk down the hall to medical, and sit in a chair after speaking to the onsite medical person. As Work Mom’s back is turned, I finish stitching up the cut, and cut the needle free. Work Mom gets permission to take me knowing I won’t go by myself, and we go to the walk-in clinic. We wait for a bit, and get called into a room. The doctor walks in about 10 minutes later.)

Doctor: “So, what’re you here for today?”

Me: “I think it’s a bit of an overrea—”

Work Mom: “This crazy person got a cut, and decided that it would be easiest to stitch it up herself!”

Doctor: “…what? You’re kidding me.”

Me: “No. I’ve done this before, and had no trouble.” *I hold out my arm for the doctor to inspect*

Doctor: “Jesus, woman! Didn’t that hurt?”

Me: “Eh.”

Doctor: “I’ll have to remove this… What did you use?”

Me: “Fishing line.”

Doctor: *mutters something under his breath* “I’ll get the proper tools for this.”

Me: *knowing I will never get another chance to ask this* “So, how’s my stitching?”

Doctor: “What? Did you just really ask me that?”

Me: “Yeah, come on. I’m curious.” *I have a massive s***-eating grin on my face at this point*

Doctor: *mumbles something*

Me: “Sorry, I didn’t catch that?”

Doctor: *exasperated* “You’re stitching is fine, but seriously, don’t do this again!”

(The entire staff is having an end of the fall quarter meeting in a large conference room. Since it’s flu season, there’s frequently the sound of coughing and sniffling because management made this meeting mandatory and refuses to let anyone call off sick. I’m sitting to the side, and the director has just called the meeting to start when one employee from the very back walks forward, crossing the entire very large room. Everyone falls silent to watch her. She props open one of the doors halfway (which just leads to a hallway) and then walks all the way back to her seat, pass dozens of coworkers, some of which are clearly feverish.)

Employee: “I just HAD to open a door! I couldn’t stand the thought of being stuck inside a closed room with all these sick people! I don’t want to get sick myself!”

(She was sitting next to another coworker who was surrounded by a pile of used tissues. As if opening a door part-way in a giant conference room halts the transmission of viruses and bacteria.)

(I work as an assistant for a busy lawyer and therefore am in charge of her schedule. She has a young daughter, who I think is about six. One afternoon my boss calls me on the phone and, chuckling, tells me her daughter wants to speak to me. I’m confused, but let her put the kid on the line.)

Me: “Hello?”

Daughter: “Hi, are you Ms. [My Name]?”

Me: “I am. What can I do for you?”

Daughter: “My mum says she can’t come home until you say it’s okay, so I want to ask if you can please let her out early today?”

(I’m speechless for a moment, but tell her I’ll try. Afterwards I go over to my boss and ask what that was about.)

Boss: *still giggling* “I guess I said that too often, that I have to clear my schedule with you. She thinks you’re my boss.”

(It was cute as hell, but I can’t help feeling sorry for the kid. Money and prestige are all very nice, but that doesn’t make up for time with your parents!)

(We have just gotten a new higher-up manager to oversee a few departments, including mine. He decides to pull us all aside for a while to get to know us and go over our employee files. It is important to note that I am a high-school dropout due to family medical emergencies, but this has no impact on my work performance whatsoever, and my immediate supervisors know this.)

Manager: “So, I see this is your first job, and you were initially a part-time file clerk in a different department. How exactly did you wind up managing this department a year later?”

Me: “Well, I started assisting with other help in this office, and gradually became full-time while another employee’s performance was slipping. When they replaced her, they moved me to a newly-formed department.”

Manager: “They shouldn’t have done that. You’d never had a job before. You can’t run a new department.”

Me: “Well, I was performing above expectations and was the best fit for the new position as it was created based around tasks I did. I’ve held that position and trained three new people to assist me in it, and got the bump to manager for it quickly.”

Manager: “You didn’t go to college and didn’t graduate high school. You’re not qualified.”

Me: “Well, if I were applying from outside for this position, I likely wouldn’t get it now, since it’s listed in our required qualifications. Since I proved myself after already being here, it was different. We do make exceptions for the right person, though. One of my best assistants didn’t graduate, either, and she’s more than proven herself, as well.”

Manager: “Oh, I let her go this morning. You’re right.”

Me: “I’m sorry; you let her go? Why? She’s been a fabulous employee.”

Manager: “Because you’re right; she didn’t fit the required qualifications.”

Me: “I’m sorry, but that’s just not fair. She didn’t lie to us; we made an exception because she had a great customer attitude. She passed the 90-day probation with flying colors!”

Manager: “What’s done is done. She should never have been hired in the first place. Neither should you.”

(At this point he literally got up from the meeting room table and walked away, leaving me staring in astonishment. When I returned to my desk I found an email dismissing me from the company due to “being unreceptive to manager feedback during a performance review.”)

(It’s the first of December and we’re decorating. A coworker helps me untangle a string of lights and I plug them in.)

Coworker: “Looks like you’ve got a short; some of the colors aren’t working. Let me take a look. I know a lot about these you know.”

Me: “Do you smell burning?”

Coworker: *not paying attention* “That’s too bad. I think I found the problem. Hang on, let me pull this bulb. You know, these things are bad for overheating.”

Me: “Oh, here. This bulb is on fire.”

Coworker: “Wait, what?!” *sees the bulb I’m holding, drops the lights, and bolts out of my cubicle*

(I calmly unplugged the lights and blew out the flame. I wish I could say this was the first fire I’d dealt with at work, but it was definitely the smallest. Hardly worth fleeing in terror over.)