First of all, no one in the office ever knows anybody. You just sit next to them and make small talk about how you both hate working in a gulag and how you drank a bottle of wine to yourself last night and binge watched another show because this is how the cube keeps one complacent. But you probably don’t even get that in-depth about it with Brenda or Sadie or whatever the pastel’s name is.
And you definitely never talk to, what’s her name, the latest person who the office sychophants want to chip in money for to get some sort of generic “present” for, like a basket full of rando shit or a gift card to Starbucks. But if you refuse, politics dictate that you’ll be ostracized and looked down upon for sure. “Don’t you make the same salary as us?” they’ll think. And you’ll want to say, “Yes, but my spending habits haven’t changed since high school.” So you’ll fork over the ten dollars (“fifteen, if you want to be generous”), all the while knowing that no one else in the office is ever going to pool together for your fucking gift because you’re not “approachable” or in management.
Like taxes, there should just be a portion of your paycheck that’s taken out solely for the assholes’ birthdays you have to donate to, your only reward a foul sheet cake.