What IS it with you people?

Today was my first day in my new office space. Now, this should have been a glorious day, as I have my new Mac zipping along on all quad gears, I have my minifridge stocked with Diet Cokes, and, most importantly, I now have a door. To be specific, a door eight feet and three inches in height made of a ferrous metal, and when closed would imply that I am not to be disturbed.

This was not to be the case. Oh, Hell no.

My new office is located on the second floor. I was able to parlay for the room with windows that stretch from floor to ceiling and wall to wall. Framed by graceful arches, the view looks out into the boughs of a tree. I strived to balance form and function. Because of tasteful accents, a monochromatic color scheme of warm cream, and strategic lighting, the gestalt of the workspace, the feng shui if you will, evokes a feeling of being in a monastical treehouse. Apparently, this feeling of seclusion is not perceived as exclusion to my chatty goldbricking co-workers, as it was an endless parade of gibbering fools the entire day.

The worst of it was this. I work with a bunch of Aspergian wordsmiths. All of them are socially flawed in some way, and usually I do my best to roll with their various idiosyncrasies. Today one of them walked into my room and announced (he didn't ask, he TOLD me) that he would be using my office in the morning to "change clothes" after he bikes in his eight miles into work. This guy was booted out of an office like mine and was demoted to cubicle. I thought he was kidding, the audacity couldn't be real, after all. His being gay, the son of two highly paid surgeons, and his predilection to be very spoiled, I know that this loss is striking a severe blow to his worldview, but tough shit. I spent the rest of the morning fuming at his sense of entitlement. Later, in the afternoon, he's standing outside of my office knocking on my door.

knock knock

Me (opens door): "How can I help you?"

Him: I want to get dressed now.

Me: Not here. This is my office now. Get out.

Him: What?

Me: Get out. I'm working. Find someplace else to change your clothes, you're not doing it here.

I close the door and hear him mewling to someone else about this, and fifteen minutes later I peek out and he's still standing in the hallway in his socks, chatting about what a bee-yotch I am, as though we're in a dorm and not at fucking work.

If I don't take a dictionary to the back of someone's head by the end of my workweek, it will be a major miracle.

Tomorrow, that door stays closed.