I go dutifully to my cubicle each day. I can deal with vealdom-- truly I can.
I've not nestled in so much as others. Feeling as I do that I'll be marched to the front door by security any day now, I've not burdened myself with the torment of having to pull personal photos and ephemera off the walls of my little space.
I can deal with the occasional yelling customer-- I don't blame them and I have a goal of trying to help every one of them. I can deal with the stressed-out co-workers wringing their hands and wondering -- as I do-- how soon we'll be shown the door because we is n00bs and expendable. *shrug*
I can deal with my schedule changing every two weeks. I can deal with lunches and breaks which are magically rearranged between the time of clocking in and time for the first break. *gasp* I can even deal with the fact that we worker bees have no record of our clock-in times coming- and going- wise, but if we should venture from our cube for a personal break - even under two minutes-- we will get a memo with that detail high-lighted the following week.
May I go to the bathroom? Mother may I?
Yeah, I can deal with it.
I can't, however, deal with much more of the eye-watering depth-charge flatus from the guy in the next cube.
It's like a brown fog rolling over the cube wall, and there's absolutely no bloody circulation and especially no escaping it when I'm in the middle of a phone call, gagging. I'm going to get one of those odor neutralizing cans and set it up on the corner of the cube the next time he lets fly.
I suppose this must have been an episode of The Office, right? Is there some proscribed method for dealing with a rude gasbag? He doesn't seem intentionally rude, otherwise, but I really don't know how to broach the topic. I don't want to work next to him much longer, though. Ew.