Written down on a post-it note this morning or Why I should be removed
I'm freaking out because*:
- I'm afraid I fractured a bone in my foot.
- My job is too irritating and nothing gets accomplished.
- I have no future and I'm wasting my life.
- I want to hurt myself. How much would it hurt.
- I want to walk out of here and I would if it weren't for the gray security panels in front of the automatic sliding doors, the magnetic strip embedded in my nametag, and the computer system that emits a loud beeping noise when one attempts to exit the building before the end of their shift. Quite embarrassing if other coworkers are around, not to mention it leaves burn marks so everyone knows anyway.
I had a theory once that, during all those awkward silences in the breakroom, becoming more and more prevalent nowadays, at least two or three people at any time are wondering the same things; what it feels like to be tasered, how far they could get past the parking lot if they tried, if it could be possible to get the timing just right. Maybe thoughts are airborne, too. Contagious regardless of the little cloth masks passed out during office-flu scares.
You can see it in people's eyes, hear it in their "Good mornings". Everybody who was there that day remembers the pathetic look of disbelief Marty had on his face- kind of surprised, poor guy really thought he was going to make it- in the moment right before they took him down face first on the pavement, German Shepherds tearing into his khakis, little broken off pieces of his glasses shimmering in the sunlight as they dragged him away. Looked pathetic, but made you kind of wonder if you could have made it if you tried. The temptation.
Every once in awhile I'll find a post-it note on top of the recycle bin. Usually just a word. "Out". "Run". "Bomb". Sometimes just a symbol, a question mark, an X, a big black dot, furiously written, ballpoint ripped through paper. A passive rebellion or just the collective tremor of the work force, not enough to spike on any security guard's seismograph, but building, building, building.....
I take one last look around at the paperwork on my desk, a brief check of what reports are due at the end of the day. Someone spilled copier toner on the floor and I'd dipped a finger into the black dust to trace an X on my forehead. My stapler is a metal paper weight, heavy enough to at least bruise a forehead, break a small section of glass window. An extra fine pen more likely to puncture the skin.
A brief thought, maybe someone else is having it, too: What would it feel like to be tasered. How much would it hurt.
How fast could I run.
- I spend a lot of time with my kids but I don't really like them.
- I like to use public transportation in foreign cities.
- I take out all my aggression in mosh pits at heavy metal concerts.
- I collect porcelain dolls of fat girls.
- I get out of work in three hours and.....
- I don't do anything really.
* There is a place for me here. Get me out of here.
- I'm afraid I fractured a bone in my foot.
- My job is too irritating and nothing gets accomplished.
- I have no future and I'm wasting my life.
- I want to hurt myself. How much would it hurt.
- I want to walk out of here and I would if it weren't for the gray security panels in front of the automatic sliding doors, the magnetic strip embedded in my nametag, and the computer system that emits a loud beeping noise when one attempts to exit the building before the end of their shift. Quite embarrassing if other coworkers are around, not to mention it leaves burn marks so everyone knows anyway.
I had a theory once that, during all those awkward silences in the breakroom, becoming more and more prevalent nowadays, at least two or three people at any time are wondering the same things; what it feels like to be tasered, how far they could get past the parking lot if they tried, if it could be possible to get the timing just right. Maybe thoughts are airborne, too. Contagious regardless of the little cloth masks passed out during office-flu scares.
You can see it in people's eyes, hear it in their "Good mornings". Everybody who was there that day remembers the pathetic look of disbelief Marty had on his face- kind of surprised, poor guy really thought he was going to make it- in the moment right before they took him down face first on the pavement, German Shepherds tearing into his khakis, little broken off pieces of his glasses shimmering in the sunlight as they dragged him away. Looked pathetic, but made you kind of wonder if you could have made it if you tried. The temptation.
Every once in awhile I'll find a post-it note on top of the recycle bin. Usually just a word. "Out". "Run". "Bomb". Sometimes just a symbol, a question mark, an X, a big black dot, furiously written, ballpoint ripped through paper. A passive rebellion or just the collective tremor of the work force, not enough to spike on any security guard's seismograph, but building, building, building.....
I take one last look around at the paperwork on my desk, a brief check of what reports are due at the end of the day. Someone spilled copier toner on the floor and I'd dipped a finger into the black dust to trace an X on my forehead. My stapler is a metal paper weight, heavy enough to at least bruise a forehead, break a small section of glass window. An extra fine pen more likely to puncture the skin.
A brief thought, maybe someone else is having it, too: What would it feel like to be tasered. How much would it hurt.
How fast could I run.
- I spend a lot of time with my kids but I don't really like them.
- I like to use public transportation in foreign cities.
- I take out all my aggression in mosh pits at heavy metal concerts.
- I collect porcelain dolls of fat girls.
- I get out of work in three hours and.....
- I don't do anything really.
* There is a place for me here. Get me out of here.