I'm sure everyone knows one of these people. And if you don't, well, then you're probably one.
You know how it is with a debbie downer. There is ALWAYS a problem. A problem they must explain to you in great detail, lest you fail to understand the magnitude of their suffering. They will most always begin the conversation, pretending to ask a question about you. But it's really a lie. A ruse. They don't want to know anything about you. You are not important. You don't understand what pain is. Or suffering. They must educate you, they who suffer so.
And if they don't begin the conversation, they tend to do things like sigh. Sighing loudly. In the hopes that you will ask them, "What's wrong?"
Don't ever do this. This is what debbie downer is waiting for. It's what she lives for. There is a reason for this name as well, as it almost always is a woman. This is something I like a lot more about men in general. They could have a two inch spike protruding from their temple and the conversation would go like this.
Me: Hi, G... Holy shit! You have a two-inch spike protruding from your temple!
Me: Are you okay?
Guy: Oh yeah, sure. It itches a little bit, that's all.
Guy: So, how was your weekend?
End of conversation.
Contrast this with conversation with debbie downer.
Me: Good morning.
DD: Sigh...oh, yeah, morning. SIGH!
Me: Okay. (turns to fill up coffee cup with hot water for tea)
DD: How was your weekend?
DD: My cat died.
Me: Oh! I'm sorry.
DD: Then we decided to have it cremated, but well, the credit limit on my card was full so the vet wouldn't take it and I didn't have enough money so I had to wrap Mr. Ticklepants in a garbage bag and bury him in my backyard. I feel so bad I could afford a proper funeral.
Me: (awkwardly): Oh, gosh, I'm sorr...
DD: And then if that wasn't bad enough, the raccoons dug him up later that night.
Me: Umm... oh...I...
DD: Some neighbors complained about the mess, like it was my fault, and then they called the cops and gave me a ticket because I guess it's against the law to bury a cat in your backyard or something.
Me: I didn't know...
DD: And the cop was this big brute and didn't care at all that poor Mr. Ticklepants died and he was just RUDE and I was so upset and started to cry... (starts getting ready to cry again).
DD: And all that really upset my gout. See... look at my ankle.
Me: That's awful. (Runs away back to my desk).
Here's what I want to say to people who have to bitch and moan about everything.
DD: How was your weekend?
Me: Good, and you?
DD: Oh, terrible. I got a papercut and I think it could get infected. My allergies are acting up, too. I ate some bad pasta salad and had awful diarrhea on Saturday night.
Me: Children are starving to death in Pakistan so why do you shut the fuck up about your allergies and diarrhea.
Me: Did I stutter?
DD: But I also only have this gross TV dinner for lunch. Broccoli alfredo. I don't like broccoli; it gives me gas.
Me: So what? Who's fault is that? Did the Taliban make you buy that fucking gross TV dinner? No? So stop your bitching.
DD: But... I...
Me: Shut up. You're a whiny brat.
This is one of many dreams of mine which may never be fulfilled. But oh, what a beautiful dream.