Bits of the daily grind.
Winter broke yesterday, and slowly rolled back into fall. Struggling into my leather jacket and heading towards work this morning was far easier than it had been the last few days.
The weekend approaches, and with it, plans for absolutely nothing. This void is somewhat comforting, considering how busy past ones have been. Perhaps I can come back to work at the banana phone factory on Monday feeling less tired for a change.
Lunchtime and I slid down the pole at the fun factory to go in search of internets. As I found my way to the library, I was greeted by the Menthol man. No one has informed me of the new trend to bathe in it.
I entered my serial number into the Que of other degenerates all lined up for access. As I wandered into the bathroom, I was greeted by the site of a man who seemed to be having sex with one of the hand dryers. Or, perhaps he simply needed to vigorously dry the inside of his open pants. Who am I to judge?
I sat down next to a homeless gentleman who was reading the yellow pages. He pushed through the book with a determined look, as though the next page of electricians would provide the answers to his metaphysical questions.
When I finally had my number come up, I wondered over to the chair, and noticed the prior user had left a pool of sweat on the back and seat of the chair. There were no other open computers, nor chairs to switch it with. Thinking quickly I quickly swiped a few of the newspapers that the library had set out to throw away, and made myself a new seat cushion. Ah, the finer things in life.
Time at this terminal is nearly up. The factory calls.
The weekend approaches, and with it, plans for absolutely nothing. This void is somewhat comforting, considering how busy past ones have been. Perhaps I can come back to work at the banana phone factory on Monday feeling less tired for a change.
Lunchtime and I slid down the pole at the fun factory to go in search of internets. As I found my way to the library, I was greeted by the Menthol man. No one has informed me of the new trend to bathe in it.
I entered my serial number into the Que of other degenerates all lined up for access. As I wandered into the bathroom, I was greeted by the site of a man who seemed to be having sex with one of the hand dryers. Or, perhaps he simply needed to vigorously dry the inside of his open pants. Who am I to judge?
I sat down next to a homeless gentleman who was reading the yellow pages. He pushed through the book with a determined look, as though the next page of electricians would provide the answers to his metaphysical questions.
When I finally had my number come up, I wondered over to the chair, and noticed the prior user had left a pool of sweat on the back and seat of the chair. There were no other open computers, nor chairs to switch it with. Thinking quickly I quickly swiped a few of the newspapers that the library had set out to throw away, and made myself a new seat cushion. Ah, the finer things in life.
Time at this terminal is nearly up. The factory calls.