And it's the beginning of the end of the week. It's time for the rouge to uncork. It's time for a tardy slumber.
The office is buzzing with procrastination. Restless breezes and pointless conversation flow through the air. it's Friday. My desk. Stacks of files. Some mail. My T4 slip. It's tax season. Oh my dear federals, please grace me with a delightful amount of return this year. I will invest, I will not consume. I will be good. Oh dear federals I promise.
And a package. Fodder Magazine. My dear foddermag. My article sits well with the others. I like to see my name in print. Smile.
This cup of joe disperses the aroma of a twelve pound bag of pennies and provides me with a headache in the back, by my hair clip.
I'm thinking about the melting of cultures, the molding of image, and the senseless chit chat I hear in the cubicle opposite.
It's small talk, of course. Oh how I'd love a world without small talk. Mine, eliminated. I do not engage in it, i refuse it. but still...its counterproductive existence boils my brain with resentment. Stop! Everyone stop. cut out the drab and go straight to peak. right there, right to it, talk about it, instead of around it.
boredom often provokes one of my attacks. presumably why I've had two anxiety attacks here at this office in this building in this city in this country in this month. joe doesn't help. joe promotes a faster heart rate and agitation. offices encourage joe consumption. offices encourage lethargy. offices encourage death to the creative wing of our minds.
damn the office. damn the office and its taxes...and damn its awful coffee.