Being locked forever in a room with my friends.
[/Jean-Paul Sartre]
Back in school. Learning maths. With my pyschopathic teacher who used to insult our intelligence by comparing us to each of his ex-wives in great detail.
Mine would be call after call after call of southern accented women calling from their bad cell phones saying," Ah’m a parent? Mah son will be a freshman there in September? Ah sent in his Special Needs form? He’s a very special case? Could you make sure the director looks at his report? He’s ADD?" and not being able to tell them we have about 35 special cases just like this and we’ll help their kid just like the others, don’t worry, and to please call back when their kid is deaf, missing a limb or completely paralyzed from the waist down and partially paralyzed from the waist up if you want to talk special. And, while you’re at it, enough with stating everything like a question.
I suspect you are a better person than I. My recurring dream is difficult to remember, but it involves large numbers. Absolutely seriously, all I remember when I wake up is that there were these really huge numbers, and I had to do something to do with them. For some reason, this wakes me in a cold sweat.
I’m mixed up in the head.
I’m inclined to agree with Sartre. Either that, or being in a neverending self-help/team-building seminar where we all have to play icebreaker games and hug the person on our left… forever!
My personal version of hell would involve toddlers. Lots of them. Running around, crying, dribbling food, incessantly saying the same thing over and over and over with exactly the same inflection… (“Mommy, can I have that? Mommy, can I have that? Mommy … mommy… mommy…mommymommymommymommy…”)
Oh, and they’d be crinkling plastic, too.
(No, I don’ t have kids. There’s a reason for that. My blood pressure is rising just *thinking * about the above scenario) 
The only thing worse than that is the day after Christmas.
I think hell would be like the OP’s except that instead of the Fanta song it is that Spice Girls song, “Tell me what you want, what you really really want…” That is quite possibly the worst song to ever hit the radio. It makes my ears bleed.
Being trapped in a situation where I am stuck with old people whining about their health (or lack of it) and how it’s all the fault of their doctors/nurses/offspring for not doing/saying/being xyz-it has nothing to do with their smoking and/or drinking for 50+ years, nope. No clock on the wall and no exit.
Oh, wait–that sounds alot like my work.
How about this instead? An endless loop of having to go out to lunch and listen to my MIL and her friends for all eternity, keeping a pleasant smile on my face and being unable to speak.
Either that or --sorry, can’t think of anything worse.
Being locked in a room with plain white walls, no windows, insanely bright flourescent lighting that buzzes loudly, with one light tube flickering intermittently, no air conditioning or vetilation of any kind, two or three flies buzzing around the room (those really big ones, too) while having nothing to read but stacks of unsorted legal documents containing long sentences in dull, arcane legalese printed top to bottom in dense 4-point type and having to make sense of it all. I’d pray for Armegeddon at this point.
Short of that, being surrounded by a swarm of angry hornets and being stung to death.
:eek: :eek: :eek: :eek:
AHHHHHHHH! MAKE IT STOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!
Ah, I’m not alone, then.
Oh, and I forgot: they’re whining, too. And at least half of them have colds. :eek:
Stuck in prison with everyone I’ve ever prosecuted (early career) or sentenced (later career).