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Dressed in black, I flit about the reception area, making ninja throwing stars out of paper clips and strangling managers and coordinators with the phone cord. Pens and pencils become instraments of death in my hands, and all departments fear me: living with the knowledge that I could strike at any time.

Stealthly, I plan the destruction and elimination of every person here who treats me like a second-class citizen and the simultaneous dissolution of their position. I eventually reach a level of such equable ninja discipline, that when someone merely picks up the phone to ask me a stupid question, they'll automatically hang up and figure it out for themselves. Haughty, arrogant employees will no longer automatically assume that I have an IQ of under 20 just because I'm a receptionist, and will instead begin to surmise--quite correctly--that I in fact hold a college degree, probably from a better school than they do, and am, in fact, far more intelligent than they are.

All of this will occur to them after only a quick sideways look from me, or possibly a two-second death-grip on their neck.

Of course, then I wake up because someone is asking me where the plates are... And I say "Um, a little to the left."

"I'm not offended by all the dumb blonde jokes because I know I'm not dumb... and I also know that I'm not blonde." -- Dolly Parton