'm fine. Honestly. Do you hear that lawnmower? It's been driving me mad for twenty minutes. Someone clearly is obsessed with a perfect grass cut. It's just noise. I'm trying to finish this report for the office but the vibration is practically shaking the windows. You're looking at me like that again. It's nothing, Dev. I'm fine. Stop hovering.
I'm not hovering, I'm sitting here. And you're vibrating more than the damn windows. I went through the same thing last year when I was trying to finish those audits—my neighbor had this leaf blower that made me want to throw my laptop. You should just put on some headphones or go for a walk. You always do this, you tense yourself up until you're shaking. It's just grass, Marc. It's not the end of the world.
Oh, right, because a walk solves everything, doesn't it? You always have the simplest answer. I could just walk away and the world would vanish. It's not "just grass" when you can't think over the damn noise. I'm not tensing up, I'm focused. There's a difference. And stop comparing my life to your audits. It's exhausting. I have work to do, and your commentary isn't helping it get.
Look, I'm not trying to be your therapist, but you're sitting there acting like a martyr over a noise. It's exhausting to watch you spiral over something so. If you were actually focused, you'd have finished that report by now. I'm just trying to give you a way out, but you'd rather sit there and miserable. I'm going to the kitchen. I'm getting a drink. If you want to keep vibrating with the lawn, be my guest.
Go then. Get your drink. It's not like your presence in the kitchen is going to make it any quieter. I'm not spiraling, I'm sitting in a chair. You think everything is some performance, some need to be less dramatic. I'm not a martyr, I'm just trying to get through the day without someone judging every move. Just close the door on your way out. The draft is loud enough.
The draft isn't loud, you're just listening for something. Always find a reason to be annoyed. If it wasn't the lawnmower, it'd be the draft or the way I breathe. It's like you need the friction to exist so you don't have to actually be productive. I'm not slamming the door, but I'm not staying here to watch you stare at a screen either. Finish your report, Marc. Or don't. Whatever.
My productivity is none of your business. You talk like you've got some manual on how I should spend my time. It's incredibly easy for you to just walk away and leave the mess for me to deal with. Typical of you, isn't it? I'll finish the report when I'm finished, not because you told me to. And for the love of sake, my breathing is fine. Just leave it alone already.
Typical? Right. I'm the one leaving because you're the one drowning in a glass of water. It's not a mess, it's just a room. You act like every little inconvenience is a personal attack on you. It's pathetic, honestly. I'm just getting some juice, don't call me when the world finally stops and you realize you have nothing worth saying. I'm done being the audience for your mood today.
Pathetic? Fine. Go drink your juice. You're so desperate to be the rational one that you can't see how insulting you are. It's easy to be dismissive when you just walk out of the room. I don't need an audience, and I certainly don't need your pity. The door is right there. I'm done explaining why the noise is annoying to you.
I don't pity you, I don't have the energy for it. You're so busy picking a fight that you don't have to face the report actually being unfinished. It's the same pattern every time. I'm not dismissive, I'm just tired of the performance. If you want to sit there and let the draft blow your papers around, I'm not going to keep holding the hand. The door is closed.
The door is closed. Good. You think you're so observant for calling out a pattern, but you're just looking for an excuse to check out. It's not a performance, it's a life, and you find it too exhausting to actually participate in. You find it far easier to judge than actually adjust to the environment. Stay in the kitchen. I'd rather deal with the draft than your version of "help."
"Adjust to the environment"? You mean stop being a de-facto martyr martyr. It's not that deep, Marc, it's just being impossible to live with. And speaking of participating—how much of your life is actually just complaining about the lawnmower because you're too stubborn to do otherwise? I'm staying in the kitchen because it's quiet in here, unlike in your head. Enjoy the draft. I'm sure it's exactly what you need right now.
"Impossible to live with." That's your real opinion, isn't it? You just have to say it through some indirect jab about calling me stubborn. I'm not stubborn, I'm just tired of having to justify my existence to you. Go ahead, stay in your quiet kitchen. It's easier for you to ignore the nuance of everything. I'd rather be here with the draft than listen to you sigh from the other room.
Nuance? There's no nuance in being difficult just for the sake of it. You love the drama because it gives you a reason to not actually get anything things done. I'm not sighing, I'm just waiting for you to realize that no one is coming to rescue you. If the draft is better company than me, then stay there. I'm tired of justifying why I want to exist in a room that isn't a battlefield. Finish the report. Marc.
Stop making everything a battlefield. You're the one who brought the ammunition the second you walked in. It's always convenient for you to play the victim of because I'm not in a good mood. I don't need a rescue, and I certainly don't need your lecture on how to finish a report. I'm sitting right here. Just stay in the kitchen and have your peace. It's clearly better for both of us.
I didn't bring anything, you were already loaded. It's always like this with you—I walk in, and suddenly I'm the aggressor. I'm not playing the victim, I'm just tired of being the target for your miserable mood. Fine, have your peace. I'll be in here if the silence ever gets too loud for you. Just don't come out there when the lawnmower stops and you realize you have nothing to complain about.
I'll come out when I feel like it. You're always just waiting for me to fail so you can say you told you so. The silence isn't too loud, it's just quiet without you talking. It's funny how you think I'm the problem when you're the one making every conversation so heavy. Go stay in your kitchen. I have plenty of work to do that doesn't involve your commentary on every move I make.
Heavy? You're the one turning the air into lead every time you open your mouth. It's funny you say the silence is quiet without me, but you can't go ten minutes without a about about being interrupted. I'm not waiting for you to fail, I'm just waiting for you to stop being exhausting for five minutes. Go back to your screen. Maybe if you actually typed, the report wouldn't be such a looming threat. I'm done talking.
Then stop talking. You say you're done, but you're still standing there waiting to get the last word. It's incredibly transparent how much you need to be the one walking away. The report isn't a threat, don't give it that much credit. It's just work. Go back to your juice and leave me alone. I'm tired of the script too.
I'm not standing anywhere, I'm already by the door. You're the one keeping the script going because you can't handle a moment of silence. It's pathetic, honestly. If you want to sit in the dark and pretend the draft is the enemy, go for it. I don't need the last word, I just need a room where I'm not being interrogated for existing. The juice is warm, and I'm actually leaving now. Good luck.
Good luck to you. You're always with the dramatic exit, like you're doing some favor. If the juice is warm, that's because you spent too long hovering over it. I'm not interrogating you, I'm existing in my own house. Go then, leave. Close the door properly this time. I'm done with the performance for the day.
"Your own house." Right. As if I don't pay half the damn bills. I'll close the door, but don't expect me to do it softly if you're just going to complain about the noise every time it opens. You're so obsessed with being the victim of your own life that you can't see anyone else exists. Go ahead, be miserable in the draft. I'm actually leaving this time.
The bills. Always the bills. That's the only card you play when you run out of actual arguments. If you're so eager to leave, then just leave. Slam the door if you have to, it won't change anything. I'm not obsessed with anything, I'm just tired of you measuring every breath like a transaction. Go out, Dev. I'm done listening to the martyr complex from the kitchen.
Transaction? You act like I owe you a medal for just being here. It's not a complex if you're actually doing it yourself every single day, Marc. I'm not slamming the door because that would give you the satisfaction of another argument. Just keep your report and your draft and your lawnmower-induced trauma. I'm out. Don't bother calling when you realize the Wi-Fi is dead.