I currently work at a law firm in NYC–supposedly a bustling, stressful, fast-paced, etc etc environment. Somehow, however, I found myself on this fine August day sitting stewing in my own brew of insanity for 7 hours with absolutely nothing to do but feel useless and write weird things in between the lines of Microsoft Word tutorials that I found saved on my computer. The following is the outcome (written on the clock) of an immense boredom as I have never before known:
I continue to sip the burnt green tea-flavored liquid, its luke warmity and all, despite the distinct scent alerting my humble sniffer to the notion that in the mix of tea leaves and h20 is something far more sinister, more rank, like scorched plastic or burnt cockroach droppings or nuclear waste. I need caffeine, caffeine is my steam, for I am a steam engine of mundanity, hauling nothing nowhere, specializing in dilly-dallying with a concentration in cerebral vegetation. For six hours I have sipped cream with coffee, smiled at people with whom I have been acquainted cordially, comrade to comrade, and averted my eyes quickly, feigning the reality of intellectual engagement–of a full plate, so to speak. “No time to be social, buddy, I’ve got some serious work to do,” as I twiddle my full moon thumbs and pretend to understand the first String Theory articles to pop up on my erudite google search. I am now too refined for crème au café, however, and am attempting to better myself by switching to green tea, sipped on average 5 times a day by the Japanese who are rumored to live forever. This has been a major life movement, more or less rocking my world in this comparatively mind-fuzzling, bone-dead cubicle, which is not mine but Margherita’s who is at funeral for the day, which has granted me the opportunity to commandeer her stagnant work vessel, which was merely given to me as an unfortunate gift for 8 delicious hours of candy crushing monotony as I pretend to be a real employee, blushing each time someone walks by and maybe just saw me looking up the health benefits of bananas or mapquesting a road trip from here to Mozambique or texting my mom that I forgot to eat breakfast. I’m trying to convince myself that I am not the one at fault here, am I? I’ve offered my assistance, offered to help, “Hey there, Karen old buddy-o, need me to work on anything?” but met with the same bright, haunting “Oh, it’s a slow day, don’t worry about anything, you useless, useless, short-skirted girl-oaf.” That last segment is for the most part imagined I can only hope, but I can’t help but think that everyone must realize that I am frequently as useless and unproductive as a leprous puppy dog or a bipolar clown who’s taken a turn for the worse during one of his low spells. This is not of my own choice, mind you—“Alert the press, alert the mayor, alert my boss! I’ve consumed enough caffeine to file at least 10^infinity of your files, to email all of your clients and their mothers and brothers and ex-husbands once removed that their bills are due and have been for a good week now!!” I would even elevator-teleport myself 37 floors to wrestle your precious lattés from the contentious snags of Starbucks’ pungent lair where most everything comes at a high price, conscience and intestinal relief included. But these comforting daymares fade as my crusty eyes slide back to focus, I swipe the salty sands from my oxidizing caruncles and take up the standard position: sit up straight, stare at computer screen with eyes squinted to the slightest degree (gives impression of concentration), type every now and then one or two sentences (perhaps writing a brief correspondence or performing a matter of important research), take a sip of coffee and stretch arms and back liberally every 15 minutes or so (hard work takes its toll on the mind and body!)
I am the newest tool in this juridical shed, but I may also be gathering the most rust.
^A visual depiction of the internal emotional commotion of this day. I think this picture will really help people understand.