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.
Ginger: Adding to the list of factions: 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.
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?
Ginger: There’s no real specifics, I’ve just been evaluating my attempts to secure a boyfriend who will not forget I exist.
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?
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…