Always Talked At, Never Talked To

One of the strange things youths are often forced to partake of while in school, whether before or during college (because you have to go to college if you want that sweet desk job), is a communications class. This seems somewhat antithetical to what will ultimately happen to an office worker once she makes her way to the confines of her partitions. That is to say, while you will be expected to listen, no one else will actually listen to what you have to say in return, preferring instead to bombard you with the modulations of their Ben Stein-esque voice.

Over time, you will, in the vein that goes with astral projection, be able to simply let all the voices wash over you, almost like a sound machine serving to soothe you whilst you get a massage (except in this case, it’s a massage for your brain that tenderizes it to the point of dumbness). You will learn that to try to express yourself in any real way beyond nods and grunts of acknowledgement is pretty much an exercise in futility (but then, exercises in futility are probably the only activity you’re going to have time to squeeze in your eight-hour day). So go ahead, take that requisite communications class. Just don’t expect that it will come in handy later, much like algebra, physics and culinary techniques (no one of note is going to want to marry an office worker no matter how well she can cook).