Well, here it is: my very first blog post. Considering that blogging has been around for 15 years or so, you could say I’m a bit late to this party. I’m like the asshole that shows up just as all the other guests are leaving but stays anyway because I don’t understand the meaning of social cues. Why did it take me so long? I can’t really say. There’s something creepily narcissistic about posting what essentially amounts to a personal diary for the entire planet’s reading pleasure. This suits me like a glove because I’m nothing if not creepy and narcissistic. In fact, those are two of my better qualities (I know, ladies, I know – stop crowding me so I can breathe).
Okay, so I want to talk about my unfulfilling job. “You mean your place of employment doesn’t cause rainbows to shoot out of your ass because of the sheer joy it brings you? Why don’t you act like a man and join the rest of us at the bar. I hope you lick an envelope and get a paper cut on your tongue,” you say. “Easy,” I retort back because I have such zingers nocked like arrows ready to loose on you at a moment’s provocation. “Let me finish my argument before you get all defensive. Also, please get out of my head.”
So, I’m a cubicle jockey. Much like the rest of you who work in cubicle farms, I spend most of the day crying silent tears of infinite sadness as I ponder what horrible deeds I committed in my past life to lead me here. I mean, you all do that too, right? If not, I’m totally joking. Ha, good one, right? *Ahem.* Moving on.
So anyway, today I took a brief break from my sobbing and looked around. It occurred to me that Michael circa ages five through ten would love this shit! What is a cubicle if not a sweet-ass fort? That alone would be enough, but there’s lots of awesome stuff in there: plenty of paper and pens for making “NO GIRLS ALLOWED” signs (that’s actually cuter if you picture the “S” in girls written backwards and “GIRLS” spelled “GURLS”); tons of paper clips waiting to be bent and twisted into amaze-balls ninja weapons for a myriad of G.I. Joe or He-Man figures; highlighters for, um, highlighting stuff; and, oh, did I mention a computer? The computer alone would be enough to melt young me’s brain what with all the videogame processing power it possesses. Young me was busy playing Pac-Man on the Atari 2600 and trying to pretend that it didn’t suck total balls. Let me clarify: Pac-Man the arcade game remains a transcendent glory to play some 30 years after its release. Pac-Man on the Atari 2600 is a soul-shattering shit sandwich. It’s like the fever dream of an extra-terrestrial that glimpsed the actual game for a split second, then took a shitload of LSD and tried to recreate it on a computer with less processing power than it takes to view a LOLcats jpeg…but I digress.
My point: I should be thrilled to death to be working in a box and I’m going to start trying to appreciate it more. So if you should ever walk past my cubicle and I’m wearing a paper hat, a rubber band and a Post-It as an eye patch, and having an invisible sword fight with my Cross pen, please don’t call security. I haven’t lost my mind; I’m just taking a moment to hang out with my inner child. Join us if you like.
That said, one of these days, I’m going to get paid for this writing thing. Until then, YAR!! Walk the plank, ya’ scurvy bastard!!