Friday, August 25, 2006

The only thing about my job that is good

I recently moved upstairs to a new cubicle. There is a bathroom upstairs of which I was previously unaware. It has a plant in it, and a flickering fluorescent light that is slowly dying. This light flickers intensely with a weird reddish-yellowish tint. I feel happy when I stand under the light. It makes washing your hands after urinating a freaky-deaky, psychedelic, totally in-your-face, tripped-out thrill ride. Unfortunately, I eventually have to leave the bathroom and confront head-on the series of awful choices I have made since age five that led to a goddamn fucking cubicle.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

The operative--and awful--word in that setence is "age five." Because it's more or less true. My favorite/most depressing part about getting older is how the truism about "high school not being real life" is just about total bullshit after age 25 or so, when college and/or recess end. After two decades and a half, in an alarming amount of professions/social encounters/urban planning initiatives, life works pretty much exactly like high school. (Maybe I'm just bitter because yesterday I had to pay a GROWN MAN to time my leg presses in between his exegeses on salsa making because society has decided that a job exists called PHYSICAL THERAPIST and that it is honorable (or at least not despicable) for a GROWN MAN to have this job. [And no, this has nothing to do with heirarchy, discipline, and the American educational system. But this does: in Ohio, the local town nerd, age 40, just shot the local cutie cheerleader, age 16. Why? Because local cutie was doing what local cuties in this town had done for years and years: she was running up to nerd's house and harassing him and his mom, because their house looked 'haunted' and mom looked like a 'witch.' So, gun-toting nerd is sick of it, and when cutie runs up to house to 'ghost it,' he shoots her. And now all the otherwise gun-nuts and property protectors are up in arms, for who was this nerd--this social cripple, this weak-kneeded moma's boy, so-called writer--to have taken their prize out of the gene pool. "Why did he over react" they babble when they aren't talking about, I shit you not, "angels and miracles" {local cutie believes in them more than anyone, says cutie's mom}. Well, nerd couldn't go to the police, the city, or the principal, because they have all been harassing him and mom just as much as the local kids have. Assistant vice-dean of suburban affairs doesn't want to affiliate with a nerd, he wants the cool kids to like him, so lets screw with the nerd over zoning codes and property maintenance issues that are called in by the former cuties turned desperate housewives next store. So cutie got shot. And they all have something to talk about during 5th goddam period.])

(Not a profession for MEN, I tell you.)