Flourescent lights everywhere. Cubicles. Somebody playing soft rock on the radio, because it’s the only thing everyone can agree on. The smell of stale coffee.
I open manilla folder, remove contents: 235 pages of paid accounting from June 2004. Every 2 pages, there is a staple; all of which must be removed. After six minutes of said staple removal, I dream pleasantly of killing myself.
Once documents are prepared, I place them in the scanner, which will jam every 5 pages. Naive as I am, I get up, unjam it, then return to my chair, knowing I’ll have to get up again in 3 seconds.
My boss, giving a tour to a newcomer waved to me and described my role in the company, snickering beneath his breath that it was “better than Mcdonalds.” And it is. It really is.
My social interaction consists of Berry- the woman in the cubicle to my right. Every few hours, she waddles over to my desk, smacks gum and talks about what happened on Raw this week. I nod and smile, holding my breath in the meantime because Berry has not washed her vagina since, well, forever.
Once the file pops up in my computer, I open the file and name it, then put it into a folder. I play a round of Solitaire before starting another file. I haven’t matched up the cards well enough for a win since November.
I used to come into work stoned out of my mind, hoping it would ease the dull routine. Instead, it made my 5 hour work day seem like 15 hours. They were starting to suspect my sunglasses in the office anyway, so I stopped.
For the 3rd Friday in a row, I did not get my paycheck on time. The boss, giggling in his 75 dollar suit, left to attend the Cubs game and get drunk, leaving me to my files and Solitaire. I scan another file, name it, save it. I instant message my friends, confiding in them that at times I want to die, not jokingly.
