I work at a company where we write lesson material for safety courses, among other things. We then teach at companies that hired us. I get the copy and visuals from the teachers and companies, add it all together, proofread, do the layout, and add the illustrations.

I get a lot of questionably sourced materials, especially when used in commercially used and sold materials, but this time takes the cake.

Me: “Are you sure you want me to use those pictures?”

Colleague: “Of course. It’s fun.”

Me: “True, but I am 100% sure it is copyrighted.”

Colleague: “Nah, I took it off the Internet. If people didn’t want that to be used, they would not have put it on the Internet where everyone can take it. The Internet isn’t copyrighted; it’s public.”

I’m getting an instant headache, being a freelance illustrator myself on the side with work on the Internet.

Me: “Not how that works. I doubt our boss would be on board with this.”

[Colleague] tells me to mail our boss, then, and I tell her my worries about it.

Boss: “Just add the pictures. We’ve never gotten into trouble before. It’s not that big of a deal; everyone does it. No one will know, anyway, and it’s too expensive to have all pictures made specifically for us. We would not be able to make a profit. But I see your concern. Make sure you add ‘All text, photos, and illustrations are copyrighted by [Our Company]’ on every page so no one steals our work.”

I voiced my concern again and said that we best not use it and that we definitely could not claim copyright on a clearly copyrighted set of images. She told me to do it anyway. I did as told eventually, didn’t put my company ID label on the work as I did not want to be linked to it in case of trouble, and saved my boss’s email just in case.

The images in question: various pictures of Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck.

Related:
CopyWrong, Part 3
CopyWrong, Part 2
CopyWrong

My boyfriend takes me to a restaurant for my birthday. It’s a very expensive restaurant but still casual clothing. My boyfriend always dreamed of taking his love there, so he has saved up for it. I have no fashion sense, and the fanciest outfit my boyfriend has is a nice sweater and good jeans. When we enter the restaurant, we notice people staring. It’s not a large restaurant, so it’s easy to see we are out of place. The staff treats us nicely, but we do not feel welcome.

After the appetizer, we get on to the main course. My boyfriend asks for fish and I ask for meat. We get what we ordered and start eating. Halfway through the meal, the waiter comes by and asks if everything is all right.

Me: “Yes, the food is amazing.”

The waiter turns to my boyfriend.

Waiter: “How is your meal, sir?”

My boyfriend doesn’t answer. He just keeps on staring at his plate, carefully chewing. He does nod a bit, so we assume he doesn’t want to talk with his mouth full.

Me: “He loves it, as well.”

The waiter leaves. Ten minutes later:

Boyfriend: “This fish is amazing! I mean, delicious! Here, taste it! This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted! We have to let them know that; that chef is amazing!”

Me: “Well, the waiter already knows; surely he told the chef.”

Boyfriend: “The waiter? When did you talk to him?”

Me: “Eh, about ten minutes ago? He visited our table?”

Boyfriend: “No, he didn’t… Did he?”

Me: “He was standing right next to you. He asked you if everything was all right?”

Boyfriend: “No… When… You mean…?”

Me: “You didn’t notice the waiter standing next to you?!”

Boyfriend: “You tasted this fish! It is pure heaven! I didn’t notice anything!”

When the waiter passed by again, my boyfriend profusely apologised for not noticing the waiter and unintentionally ignoring him. The waiter promised to tell the chef his dish was so good that my boyfriend forgot about the world for a moment. After that, the staff was a lot more chill with us (I guess the ice broke) and we had a great time.

I’m also the author of this story, so let’s just get out of the way that yes, I have a weird dating life.

I meet a guy via a dating website and we get along quite well. We have three dates that all go pretty well, and I start to like him, though I’m cautious about any further advances he makes. (Turns out later that was probably my instincts warning me up front somehow.)

Before long, [Guy] invites me to what he describes as “a metal music festival for furries” at a town just across the German border. I think it’s a fun date idea — we’re both metalheads, for starters, and though I’m not into furry stuff myself, he has a pretty neat tiger fursona and I’m curious to see it — so I agree to go.

We book a hotel on the Dutch side of the border and head there first to drop off our stuff. I find out [Guy] didn’t bring his costume — which is odd since he was talking about showing it to me for days — but I think nothing much of it.

On the way there, [Guy] has a CD playing by a band that I only slightly tolerate, and it repeats about five times during the ride. I’m slightly annoyed, but I’m not going to be the passenger DJ, so I’ll cope.

An hour and a half after we pass the border, we finally arrive at a tiny town, at a party venue that is no more than a converted barn. The “festival” only has one cover band playing and about fifty people in attendance. But sure, the vibes are so far so good.

We enter the venue, [Guy] introduces me to some of his friends… and then, he promptly disappears without a trace for the following hours.

I’m feeling quite lost and awkward as I don’t know anybody. I sulk for a while, but people are inviting me to socialise, and one even buys me a drink. So, I think, “Screw it. Let’s make the best of it while I’m here.” I have a couple of drinks, hang out with some people, admire the furry costumes, and enjoy the band.

People start inquiring who I’m with, and alarms start to go off.

The moment I mention his name and the fact that he disappeared on me, people go, “Oh, no, not him again,” and, “How in the h*** did a sweet thing like you end up with [Guy], of all people?” and, “Poor girl, you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into,” and even, “Honey, don’t go on a date with this guy ever again. He’s trouble. Save yourself.”

I have no clue how to get out. We’re in the middle of nowhere, and as friendly as all the people are, no one is willing to give me a ride somewhere out of here. I enquire further and find out that my date is no real threat, just a notorious d****ebag with a truckload of personal issues.

[Guy] does show his face around midnight for a short time, and he looks tired and moody. I approach him and ask him if he is ready to leave, but he says no and tells me to continue dancing on my own.

Two o’clock in the morning rolls around and I’m dead beat, the high has gone, and I’m more than done with all this. I’m slumped on a sofa somewhere, just waiting for him to make an appearance. Some people are kind enough to keep me company, but most people have gone home by now. Then, [Guy] finally shows.

Guy: *Curtly* “We’re going.”

I follow him to the car. By the time we get to the hotel, that one album plays three more times, and I’m close to punching a wall.

He snores like a pig all night, so I don’t sleep a wink. During breakfast, he continues to be grumpy and doesn’t say a word, so I finally tell him he can drop me off at the nearest train station and I’ll find my way home from there.

He has the nerve to look surprised.

We get to the station, and I swear, I never want to hear this particular album again ever in my life. Before I leave, I turn to him and say:

Me: “You know, I even managed to have a bit of fun last night.”

His face lights up.

Guy: “You did?”

Me: “Yes. But obviously, no thanks to you. Never see you later.”

I slammed the car door in his face and, true to my word, never saw him again. I did meet some more people who seemed to know the guy some months after, and again, I was told I’d dodged a bullet with that one.

Related:
Ain’t Dating Just The Best?

I work in a supermarket as well as in a daycare centre. I’ve been lucky for a long time, but eventually, I do catch the dreaded [contagious illness]. I’m only out for about one and a half weeks, so I feel that’s not too bad at all, and though my energy is REALLY low, I still manage to come to work with a smile and overall do a good job.

Unfortunately, because people keep bringing their sick children to the daycare centre, and because nobody seems to care about [illness] anymore, no one’s wearing masks and everyone is coughing in each other’s faces. I get sick again about a week after I start working again. The daycare centre people are very concerned and considerate, but the supermarket is a different story.

I send a text to the supermarket to report sick on Monday evening, as is protocol. I get no response, so I call on Tuesday morning.

Me: “Hi, I’m really sorry, but I can’t come to work tomorrow. I got out of work sick on Monday, and I’m still feeling terrible. I have a high fever, I’ve been throwing up, and I can barely contain a little water now.”

Boss: “Oh. Well. Hmm. That’s really inconvenient.”

Me: “I know, I’m sorry. I’m supposed to start at ten. Someone can cover for me from two thirty to five, so that’s something at least—”

I have to throw up again.

Me: “Sorry, gotta go.”

I start puking what’s left of my guts out. About two minutes later, my boss calls me again.

Boss: “You have to try to help us out in the morning at least. It’s only for a few hours anyway. If you don’t, your coworker will be all alone.”

Me: *Taken aback* “Well, I’m sorry, but that’s not an option. I’m very sick. I still have a fever, and I can’t eat or drink.”

Boss: “Yeah, well, get some rest and call me back at three o’clock.”

I do.

Me: “Hi. Look, I know this is difficult, but my fever isn’t dropping, and I still can only drink a tiny bit of water. I’d rather not sit at a till all green and woozy.”

Boss: “Yeah, well, we can’t get anyone to cover for you, so you’ll just have to be there. Besides, you’ve been sick so much already lately.”

Me: *After a stunned pause* “Excuse me?! I’m not doing this for fun, you know! I am actually not well.”

Boss: “Yeah, yeah. Look, just try. You still have half the day and the whole night. Call us tomorrow morning at eight.”

What the h***? I’ll call them all right, saying that I’m not going to risk my own health AND THAT OF MANY OTHER PEOPLE during an ongoing GLOBAL HEALTH CRISIS. I’m NOT going to be spreading all my germs in a busy supermarket. And when I feel better, I’m gonna quit. This isn’t worth it.

I work in Social Housing. Every year, the rent rises following the rules set by the government. There is an obligated part (the inflation) and a “free” part (which is limited). This year, the CEO of our company decides that we will only do the obligated part for those with the lowest incomes, and those who have an income too high for social housing will get a raise lower than the allowed maximum. If your information with us is outdated, you can appeal the raise and we will recalculate it with the latest information. 

Woman: “I sent in an appeal for my raise; it’s outrageous that I’m getting such a big raise!”

Me: “I understand that a raise is never welcome. I see that your appeal has been received and will be dealt with in the coming days. I—”

Woman: “Well, I think you are a bunch of crooks! And why did you need my personal information? That’s private!”

Me: “The government told us your income was in scale B. We never get details, just what scale people are in. If this information is outdated, we can recalculate it for you, but we do need the correct information, then. We—”

Woman: “I’m telling you it’s wrong! Why do I need to go through the hassle of proving it? “

Note: it’s three income slips and a registration of how many people are registered at your house, which you can download or get at City Hall.

Me: “I understand, but we’re not getting that information from the government or City Hall automatically. Only you have that information or can get it at City Hall. You—”

Woman: “And when I first sent it in, you rejected it because my social security number was on it! What kind of bull is that?!”

Me: “Because, by law, we are not allowed to have your social security number in our system. We are not allowed to see it.”

Woman: “Other companies take it!”

Me: “I cannot talk for other companies. I can only talk about this company, and we are not allowed to see it.”

Woman: “Well then, you should have put that in the letter!”

She’s referring to the one that announced the raise.

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am, but it was in the letter.”

Woman: “No, it was not!”

Me: “Really? I read the letter myself. Let me look it up for you.”

Woman: “It was not in there!”

Me: “I’m reading it now — one moment.”

Woman: “Well, do that on your own time. I have better things to do. My cat wants some attention.”

Yes, she actually said that.

Me: “Here it is: page six. It’s at the header, ‘Mind your SSN’.”

Woman: “Well, that’s not clear at all! No wonder people misunderstand that!”

Me: “It’s a paragraph of about five lines, and it says you must remove your SSN. I’m sorry you—”

Woman: “Well, it’s crap, anyway. Why did you need my personal information, anyway? That’s privacy! I don’t care if you have my SSN; that’s not important, anyway! My privacy is more important!”

She went off on another tirade about how evil the CEO was and kept interrupting me over and over. Eventually, I just gave up on her and told her she’d be contacted. If I told her you can steal someone’s identity with an SSN, she wouldn’t have believed me, anyway. She ended the conversation with a comment about how this all took too long and now her dinner was burned. (It was just after lunchtime.)