The Artist and the Office Job

She sits at her desk; it is one o’clock in the afternoon. There’s the clatter of fingers pressing buttons to produce letters. There’s the hydraulic humpity noise of the copy machine, and the restless chewing of lips. She notices a birthday announcement on tyrannous Facebook and thinks, “OMG. When did she grow so OLD?” The rumor circulates that a mouse was splashing in a puddle in the basement. On the other side of the cubicle divider, a sneeze explodes. She scoops dregs of color from the muck of her mind and putties them into the form of a lumpy tiger, then chops it up, then disposes of the remains in a hollow tree trunk marked “Honey Boo Boo’s Face”. Now I am a murderator, she claims on Twitter. Here, I am the princess of skeletons.

Oh sorrowful existence! Oh deplorable metropolis! Nothing has happened to her today. She has written twenty emails to twenty people she hardly knows; she has purchased grape tomatoes from the handsome vegetable vendor (Turkmenistanian?), because he wore Adidas track pants and indifferent lips. She has tapped on the door to the CEO’s office, and the CEO said “You should bring a notebook, you should lighten your face with confidence. You must understand we are not a mere mickey-mouse organization, you must not leave dirty dishes soaking in the bathroom sink.” She has read several poems on the internet that appalled her and then said loving things about them in different online forums. She has imagined kicking a beagle in the stomach while petting it simultaneously; she has donated $15 toward a resurrection of “My So Called Life” on kickstarter, but refused a farthing to the beggar on the C train with a melted face (some kind of acid attack). She has traveled to Staten Island and become queen of the ruby-eyed cicadas (the entire forest, an alien beast, a giant green hive, made a ululation like an air-raid siren, and each tree seemed a gigantic extraterrestial of suspicious motive); she has disputed wearily with a Chase employee, because her identity was stolen and used to purchase diapers and “dog relaxer”, and each of her outrages was met with “Miss, I am very sorry. Let me resolve this issue for you,” which meant that the entity speaking to her was not human, had no face, and did not understand her emotional status/sadness.

Her disquietedness, having no immediate target for its vent, coiled deep into her bowels to brood and roast au jus. Luckily she has the Twitter to troll and Buzzfeed in which to lose herself.

Oh death, oh tsunami, she prays for your sweet release, oh illness of the glands, unshackle her from that desk. Oh bright memory of lying under pelts on a snowy Monday morning, guide her to state of innocence and sincerity. Let her outwit her competition daily, and keep her always prettier, younger, and more wealthy than those idiots who bungle through her life.

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