Ugh, another nineteen-nineties workday. Time to get into my beige car, drive to a beige office building, and receive pay plus full benefits in my beige cubicle. I wish I could rip off this too-wide necktie and say to my jerk boss one final “Whassup?!” Instead, I sit at my PC, tack up another “Dilbert,” and count the days until I retire.
Knowing that I’ll get to retire is such a “Bitter Sweet Symphony.”
Welp, time for another day of answering e-mails. E-mail after e-mail for all eight hours I’m at my computer. Ay caramba. Five o’clock cannot end my workday soon enough. If I don’t get out of this bad mood soon, it’ll ruin my literal lunch hour.
I know what I’ll do—I’ll blow off some steam by playing Minesweeper. I’ve got to be careful about slacking off, though. My cubicle is barely completely private. Everybody can see my screen if they walk over and look at it on purpose!
If I hear anyone coming, I’ll pretend to be reading this health-insurance packet. Not that I ever read these boring things. “Why, yes, I’ll read fifty pages confirming that our benefits stay the same next year—NOT!”
Sigh. It’s so hard to relax while wearing geeky office clothes. My chunky, plastic-frame glasses are so unfashionable for now. I wish I could dress however I wanted. But what am I supposed to do—get another job? With ease? And adhere to their similar dress code? As if. I put up with enough clearly stated expectations here.
Gotta calm down. Maybe I drank too much coffee. Coffee is a simple beverage that I don’t overthink.
Either way, I should hydrate. I’ll swing by the water cooler and partake of its clear pretext for casual bonding. Ah, everyone’s talking about the new show that we all saw because pop culture is a manageable size. I hope this chat doesn’t veer into the scariest topic there is, which is Marilyn Manson. Now I’m back at my desk—and what’s this? A flashing light on my phone? Blech. Gag me with a spoon. It feels like my phone’s blowing up all the time while I’m at its single location.
I’ll handle that voice mail after I use the toilet without any pressure to multitask.
Booyah—it’s quitting time! Yet I dread my drive home. Nothing to do but sit in traffic, let my 401(k) double, and listen to today’s three new Prince albums. Then back to work tomorrow. But, don’t worry, I’m not feeling “goth” about it. Every time my jerk boss drones on about our raises matching inflation and our staff remaining essential, I just keep nodding. I keep smiling. And I remember what really matters. I remember that, once I sock away five figures, I’ll have just enough money to put my seven kids through college.
