Chicken Fumes

Ginger: Do you ever wonder if there are actual factions out to get you?

Ruby: Define ‘get you.’

Ginger: You know, the usual: slowly drive you insane by making you aware of things that you would otherwise take for granted or ignore; gradually making you out to seem a conspiracy theorist; making you jump through hoops other people seem to be able to avoid on a daily basis.

Ruby: But you are a conspiracy theorist.

Ginger: An armchair theorist, really.

Ruby: Why ‘armchair?’ Just because you don’t have a website or underground newspaper with a circulation of three doesn’t mean you deserve the title of ‘armchair.’

Ginger: Because no one believes me when I deliver my theories. That makes me an armchair theorist of conspiracy. I keep it as a habit. If I were to make an effort to prove my theories, then I could lose the ‘armchair.’

Ruby: Ah. Of course.

Ginger: You never answered the original question.

Ruby: Are there actual factions out to make you appear crazy?

Ginger: Yes. More specifically, factions that dress in brown shorts and pretend to deliver packages and factions that demand payment every month for basic human needs like heat, water, gas and a roof over my head as well as demand payment for teaching skills I never get to use.

Ruby: Ginger, you have to pay rent and other bills. It’s just…a requirement of living on your own.

Ginger: Currently, I don’t live on my own. That’s changing soon, but, currently, I don’t live on my own.

Ruby: You know what I mean.

Ginger: It’s a good thing you knew that, too.

Ruby: And as for the brown-shorted delivery factions…yes, I think that we can call that a faction and assume they are out to drive you steadily closer to falling over the edge into insanity. But you do keep returning to them, requesting delivery.

Ginger: I can’t help it if I’m an optimist.

Ruby: You’re…not…an optimist.

Ginger: Yes, but I wouldn’t be able to help it if I was.

Ruby: I suppose that makes sense in your twisted logic.

Ginger: It’s really not all that twisted, really.

Ruby: Of course. What was I thinking.

Ginger: Of course, I don’t think that it’s just human factions, I think that the planet is out to get me, too.

Ruby: Ginger, for the eighth time, jetlag is not something that only affects you. It hits everyone.

Ginger: I thought we were calling it a “plane hangover.”

Ruby: That either.

Ginger: And it doesn’t affect everyone; only people who fly between time zones.

Ruby: True. Please excuse my unintentional hyperbole.

Ginger: But there are those people who I think really are trying to get me.

Ruby: Yes, Ginger. I know.

Ginger: Like the people who walk slowly on crowded streets, making me walk slowly, too, because I can’t get around them. Or the people who don’t listen to announcements and then ask “What did they say?” in their obnoxious whiny voices that grate on my nerves. Or –

Ruby: Ginger, I get it. Factions of people. Annoying. Trying to make you go insane. Got it.

Ginger: You’re being very understanding about all this…

Ruby: Let’s just say I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt for now.

Ginger: Hmm. This “benefit of the doubt” you speak of wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with circumstances you cannot avoid at the present time, would it?

Ruby: You mean the fact that you, while still suffering from the exhaustion that accompanies a 15-hour difference, “plane hangover” and the inevitable onslaught of illness if you don’t get more sleep soon, are waving a knife around while you speak to me about factions of people attempting to drive you to an early retirement in an institution similar to Bedlam? Of course not.

Ginger: Hey, you asked me to dice the chicken.

Ruby: True. And if I regretted it, it would have nothing to do with the perfect cubes you are making out of the chicken. It would have to do with the waving about of a very sharp knife.

Ginger: Bedlam? Really?

Ruby: Did you want to put down the knife?

Ginger: Not particularly. But thank you for asking.

Ruby: Yeah.

Ginger: Adding to the list of factions: Boys.

Ruby: Boys?

Ginger: Boys. In general. Not specifics. I mean, we could include specifics, but just boys in general. I think they are all out to drive me crazy. Except Fly. He’s just out to drive you crazy.

Ruby: Thanks.

Ginger: In a good way, of course.

Ruby: Oh, of course.

Ginger: Life would just be so much easier if I didn’t have to deal with boys.

Ruby: Is there any specific reason you believe this, or are the raw chicken fumes finally getting to you?

Ginger: Raw chicken gives off fumes?

Ruby: Focus.

Ginger: There’s no real specifics, I’ve just been evaluating my attempts to secure a boyfriend who will not forget I exist.

Ruby: And?

Ginger: And I think I should give up and join a convent, except that they’d probably make me give up my leather skirts.

Ruby: Yeah, I don’t really know of any leather-wearing religious folk.

Ginger: Maybe I should start my own convent. Leather skirts, bare stomachs and no boys.

Ruby: Maybe you should put down the knife and go take a nap.

Ginger: I’d probably have to do something religious with the group…do you think we could publish a conspiracy paper and make it sound religious? Then, I think we’d get written approval from Rome.

Ruby: Yes, I always hear about those bare-stomached, leather-girded conspiracy theorists with a blessing from the Pope.

Ginger: Is there any more chicken to dice?

Ruby: Nope.

Ginger: Kay. In that case, I think I’m going to go lie down for a while. I’m suddenly exhausted.

Ruby: Yeah, thinking does that to you.

Ginger: Seriously, Bedlam? I thought that place closed down ages ago…

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