Should I stay or should I go.

When I came back to the office on Monday, my cubicle was just the way I left it; empty drawers, knocked over ergonomically design chair and my big wad of gum pressed firmly on the monitor. I looked around to see if any angry people were heading my way to give me a good talking to, but, nope. Not a peep. I don’t think anyone really noticed my small act of rebellion/treason so I tried to act natural and cleaned up my space and put things back where they were. I didn’t want to touch the gum just yet because I wanted to savour the feeling I got when I stuck it there, so I spent the day working around it, scrolling and moving windows so I could see whatever I needed to see.
My feelings of satisfaction and content soon faded after my first break. I see all the young 20 year old girls everywhere in the office. I’ve fallen in love with every single one of them, but the one girl, Clara, tortures my mind without fail every time I see her. Sometimes when I’m inspired/brave/apathetic enough, I strike up a conversation with her. I ask her about T.V. shows, if she’s seen any movies lately, what did she do on the weekend, that sort of thing. What I’d really like to ask her is how do I get to become her boyfriend. Why is she so desirable? Why does she torture me so with her very existence? But I don’t want to get written up and I don’t want to scare the shit out of her. In my day dreams, we have been on dates, made love, gotten married and settled in the suburbs. I think to myself about what her boyfriend would think if he saw a complete mental case like me talking to his woman. I’m not sure if she has a boyfriend, but any female that gorgeous MUST have a collection of boyfriends.
Instead of sitting in the break room eating by myself, I spent my lunch hour sitting in my car in the parking lot listening to talk radio while I crammed my ham, cheese and mustard sandwich in my face. They were interviewing a kid who could speak 25 languages and he set some sort of world record. My first reaction was “bullshit” and disappointment that I never thought of doing something like that. I could’ve spent every god damn hour of my life learning a useful skill instead of living my little life. I’m only 25 so I have lots of time left to pursue whatever.

My last day at work.

In the booming metropolis of London Canada, people live together. They work, they talk, and they play. Tensions rise with the different tides of the stars in the night sky and the smell of despair in the air. Men wake up at the same time every morning, eat their breakfast of corn flakes and coffee, get in their cars and speed down the road to downtown where they work in an office for eight hours. The air conditioning doesn't work. Co-workers say the same shit to each other, same as the day before that and the day before that. Middle management and lowly office peons talk about their reality T.V. shows like "Who wants to club a baby seal?" and other nonsense. Buttoned down and iron pressed shirts and pants with matching black shoes, these men are dressed for success, always winking at each other, pointing at each other, checking out the girls behind as she walks on by, and why not. They are winners. Graduating at the top of their class cum Laud. Winners at work, winners at life. There I am buried deep inside this monument to mans hubris built of steel, glass and fire-resistant materials. I have the mouse in my right hand and I'm lost in the glow of pictures and words broadcasting from my computer monitor. I tell myself how this is where I want to be, with all these fighters and warriors of the corporate war. I have a leader I think. He (she?) is upstairs on the next floor doing god knows what. I wonder if the leader is secretly watching me. Is he looking at the websites I'm looking at. Can he see that I just did a google search on how to break an addiction to mothballs. Lately I've become deeply enchanted with their smell and I can't get enough of them to make me happy. They remind me of when I would find them in my grandmas closet near the back next to her shoes and boxes of old bills and the vacuum cleaner.
Now in the present, I'm worried I won't be able to break this addiction and I'll end up going to some sort of rehab where the doctors aren't allowed to laugh or make faces. In my small cubicle of solitude, I feel secure, at least, that I will not have to deal with problems I have at home. Nausea starts to creep in as I see Mr. Zigler my supervisor (and a winner I might add) make eye contact with me and start walking to my door. For a moment I wonder what his love life is like. Then he ask me to go to the board room for a meeting with all the other winners and cool people. After he walks away, I start to pack my things into my briefcase. Then I open my drawer and take out two large garbage bags and put one inside the other for extra strengh. I close the door and start tossing as many things as I can steal into the bag; pictures that aren't bolted to the wall, office supplies, Kleenex boxes (3 of them) my computer mouse, as many CDs as I can find and then I throw some big books with hardcovers out the window and hope for the best that if they kill anyone on impact, it won't be traced back to me. I hoist the garbage bag over my shoulder like Santa Clause and head out the door with a twinkle in my eye and smile at every asshole I see. I think its been such a good day so I head on home in my PT Cruiser and catch up on my soaps.