Warping Priorities
Life has been interesting lately, as it always is. Each day I wake up and take myself to work with my beloved cup o' coffee purchased from my favorite Starbucks employees and move to My Place of Work. Each hope-filled moment sardine-packed with hallucinations of the day when the black and white of patient care and money will swap genetic material and give birth to compassion and understanding. Likely, it seems, as my anus shooting sparkles and fairies.
But lately work has turned awkward. Not the usual variety of mouse-maze strange, but flaccid penis awkward. Not that I let this get me down. Lay-offs happen so often it feels like an episode of Survivor Island mixed with the wizard from the Wizard of Oz telling the little people to get the hell out. Its an unseen HR demon coming to pack up our souls in small cardboard boxes only to let our plant-like hopes fizzle and die because they couldn't face moving from the comfort of their warm office chairs. Preferring to be proactive about such issues, I've taken to taping small bits of written notes to my cube walls to give it that papered/padded cell feeling. They say things like, "Miss Information", and "Wing-away Wheelchair" or include depictions of small spacecraft and similarly sized cars. The on-lookers enter my domain only to turn 360's, eyes and mouths matching in size. Next, keeping food that will soon be given names after the fermentation is complete. Floyd has moved back in and wants to flirt with you winking sensuously with long pink and green lashes. He is so shameless. My rancid cellmate and I will enter into a new faze of life, unemployment and blissful panic dreaming of green leaflets to swim in not unlike Mr. Mc Duck and his huge pool/vault. Perhaps not marked so grandly as with a golden dollar sign or even ornate initials, but it will be mine, right next to my personal assistant who takes out the trash and magical coffee making unicorn named George. Or Bob.
My side of the building is cold like a cadaver filled meat locker, but holds a cornucopia of entertainment and quick thinkers. Each of us bundled under several layers of case files to keep warm with. Bricked into our stations, our little ship turning into a white water rafting trip. Each little death means that much harder to paddle for the living.
Tailored suits avoid our eyes priding themselves on their ability to mask the blatant emailed information from the small town hicks. Little do they know our teeth have grown back and soon we may leave only to be reborn out of the Mc Donald's cup of the new workforce. The fast-food lies of equality have burned like a brand in our backs and wallets. You are let go now in good will, and someday you may have achieved the karmic justice of being in my beautiful shoes. This worked for the peasants before. Are you so good that you believe that people should be allowed to live even if they've brought the sin of poverty upon themselves?
Che Guevara is no longer an activist but the billboard hiding in the break room of The Gap, workers blowing snot all over his high minded ideas of freedom and revolution. Replace him now with Millionaire Matchmaker and Oprah for culture. Who needs health care when we can have panties and a matching handbag.
The end is painted pink with sequins and condoms.
But lately work has turned awkward. Not the usual variety of mouse-maze strange, but flaccid penis awkward. Not that I let this get me down. Lay-offs happen so often it feels like an episode of Survivor Island mixed with the wizard from the Wizard of Oz telling the little people to get the hell out. Its an unseen HR demon coming to pack up our souls in small cardboard boxes only to let our plant-like hopes fizzle and die because they couldn't face moving from the comfort of their warm office chairs. Preferring to be proactive about such issues, I've taken to taping small bits of written notes to my cube walls to give it that papered/padded cell feeling. They say things like, "Miss Information", and "Wing-away Wheelchair" or include depictions of small spacecraft and similarly sized cars. The on-lookers enter my domain only to turn 360's, eyes and mouths matching in size. Next, keeping food that will soon be given names after the fermentation is complete. Floyd has moved back in and wants to flirt with you winking sensuously with long pink and green lashes. He is so shameless. My rancid cellmate and I will enter into a new faze of life, unemployment and blissful panic dreaming of green leaflets to swim in not unlike Mr. Mc Duck and his huge pool/vault. Perhaps not marked so grandly as with a golden dollar sign or even ornate initials, but it will be mine, right next to my personal assistant who takes out the trash and magical coffee making unicorn named George. Or Bob.
My side of the building is cold like a cadaver filled meat locker, but holds a cornucopia of entertainment and quick thinkers. Each of us bundled under several layers of case files to keep warm with. Bricked into our stations, our little ship turning into a white water rafting trip. Each little death means that much harder to paddle for the living.
Tailored suits avoid our eyes priding themselves on their ability to mask the blatant emailed information from the small town hicks. Little do they know our teeth have grown back and soon we may leave only to be reborn out of the Mc Donald's cup of the new workforce. The fast-food lies of equality have burned like a brand in our backs and wallets. You are let go now in good will, and someday you may have achieved the karmic justice of being in my beautiful shoes. This worked for the peasants before. Are you so good that you believe that people should be allowed to live even if they've brought the sin of poverty upon themselves?
Che Guevara is no longer an activist but the billboard hiding in the break room of The Gap, workers blowing snot all over his high minded ideas of freedom and revolution. Replace him now with Millionaire Matchmaker and Oprah for culture. Who needs health care when we can have panties and a matching handbag.
The end is painted pink with sequins and condoms.