If there was one place that I can immediately associate with dry-heaving my guts out, the place where life and death happens (not talking about the squat rack), it’s the office space of doom.
..”I wish I was talking about the squat rack..”
This little dusty and divided slab of prison-barrier-contraption that apparently represents a professional work space is the iron maiden. I sit here and realize , more importantly, that my “colleagues” are so far gone. Too deep in the game of 9-5 to imagine any other option but here. The death of their dreams spew out of their fucking eye sockets. The smell of death through their pores emanates as they walk by. Depression, frustration, stress, and junk foods seem to be the patterns of coping with the man.
..The Man: a raging hot-head with boyish tendencies. One that speaks loudly with mouth full, with constant outbursts of hissy-fits, and bullies employees in front of everyone if not given the right amount of attention. Is not respected by his wife and kids but expects much from everyone else..
The “cemetery” Is what I’m beginning to call this strange land. As it appears that Tim, the workhorse, is always gobbling up pastries while his retinas melt through the computer screen trying to please the gatekeeper; to which he is compensated with little soft pats on the head. The trans-fats and artificial colors beginning to spill from Tim’s oozing grin of empty pleasure.
“Lats,” or more recently, “Shit-Tits,” manifests the attributes of a manatee queen or a Chinese hippo emporess: the egocentricity displayed by hoggish snorts, the under-bite of a wild board, and an all too tailored “lady-like, phone-answering voice that will easily make an old man’s testes cringe further into his body” is evident.
“…the contradiction of fat swiveling on an office chair versus complete imaginative sexiness in one’s own mind, is real..”
(Shit Tits sips her coffee; to which we all know what to expect next)
The angelic boar heaves her pale flesh off the support of the chair’s struggling arms then proceeds to crackle and split the floor boards as she oozes towards the lavatory door. Each courtesy flush of doom represents the clunking of log cabins; surely we would need an axe rather than a plunger to Heimlich maneuver the poor porcelain that may give out from such terror. Courtesy flushes by the dozens-then-a soft closing of the bathroom door, as if to preserve the contents in a seal tight bag. The under-bite moves jaggedly through the air as everyone prepares to hold their breaths. As she passes, the computer monitors begin to fog then with a “plump” hits the seat triumphantly with the moan and groan of a relieved couch potato.
“Whew,” an inexperienced person would say, “glad that’s over.” Little did they know that round 2 is worse and unexpected.
..”a small piece of hope..”
As I make my way down the corridors of the cemetery gates, I find a small piece of hope: the sun peers its head through the cracks and suddenly I’m reminded of pumping iron and conquering my macros. I flee from the madness temporarily but soon will find my exit.
..”I’m reminded of pumping iron and conquering my macros. “