Yesterday was a long, boring day filled with nothing. With no other options, I penned the following story. Yes, it's purposefully dramatic and depressing. Being overwrought is just a side effect. 😉 Read, comment, whatever. If you hate it and hate me, then I hate you, too. Cheers! :beer:
THE OFFICE - A Day in the Life Of
A short story by raptor13
************************
It is a cold and dreary morning, one befitting the night of restless sleep and uncomfortable solitude it follows. The world, shrouded in a blanket of all-encompassing, muted whiteness, seems altogether to have lost the appeal, zest, and vibrance it once held. Snow falls. Students and workers, cursing their responsibilities, their jobs, and, above all, the freezing burn of the morning air, stir and set themselves in halting and bleary motion towards the very same classes and jobs they abhor. I?m awake.
The music blares as I fumble for the off switch. Where the hell is it? Must this radio torture me with its screachingly joyful sounds of DJs and their lackeys, no cares in the world, spewing lord-knows-what? How can they sound so god-damned cheery at this hour? Don't they know they just ruined the best part of my day? The bastards. And then I find it. Click. I shut those f*ckers up good.
Rolling over, reality hits me like a hammer driving nails through soft pine: she's gone. With nothing but the promise of warmth and comfort to keep me in bed, I succumb to the guilt and shame I would feel for yet again skipping out on my morning's work. Altruism at its finest. F*ck that; I'm doing this for the money. The next few minutes see me blithely sliding through a routine which has become all too familiar. The shower, the preparation, the breakfast - I feel numb. A shirt follows pants. The scarf, gloves, and a coat aren't far behind. I look every bit the eager professional I am supposed to be yet I feel nothing but an interesting concoction of apathy and dread. Keys in hand, I clasp the door's handle, shake off the final throws of sleep, and begin my journey through this wasteland of a day.
Sweet sh*t is it cold. Parkinson's patients don't shake this bad. There it is! The sting of cold air enters my head like a bitter slap in the face. My breath shortens as it hangs before me. I pull my coat tight, the car unlocks, and I slide in, reminded all too clearly of the destitution called humanity as the trash bag I use for a window does nothing to muffle the sound of my slamming door and its own ragged fluttering. Unfortunately, the engine cranks to life leaving me no excuse to call this day over. A few rows of the gearshift bring me to a parking space, the half-warm engine mocking me as it has yet to blow anything but the world's freezing bite through the vents it riotously calls the "Heater." At least I get the last laugh. The motor shudders to a halt when the key spins from the ignition. Killing it is the only satisfaction I?ve had thus far and with nothing but a bleak, weary morning to look forward to, I begin to wonder about asphyxiation. A bag finds my shoulder and I clock in.
At least it isn't cold in here. The warm glow of the monitor keeps me sane as the other drones scuttle about their dealings in a very convincing display of dedication and prowess. It's such a sham. I'm unsure whether to laugh or cry at the pathetic sadness of this dog and pony show when I realize, as I have so many times before, that I could be their f*cking poster child. My desire to scream, to tell off this world of drudgery and supposed passion is curbed by the sweet flow of coffee and caffeine now coursing through my veins. I pour a second cup. I could kick these walls down, raze all of their worthless pettiness to the ground but that would halt my collection of paychecks which, as I remind myself, is the only reason I've come back to this hole. I take another sip.
Hours pass as I blindly follow protocol and procedures to fulfill duties in which I have no interest. Fake smiles, feigned enthusiasm, and an underlying current of disgusted loathing accompany every conversation and intra-office interaction in which I partake. I?d deserve an Oscar if I couldn't find better actors populating every other stall of this wretched farm. To call us sheep is unfair; we don't have that kind of autonomy.
Where has the time gone? Lunch came and went, it an exercise in consumerism and gluttony shared amongst friends. Was I sleeping or have the numbing effects of so much Coke and coffee fulfilled their promise of making me alertly unaware? The dazed fog protecting me dissolves as I blink myself back to consciousness. Autopilot had dispatched of whatever detritus the afternoon had rolled my way but, sadly, I?m blinking too soon. It?s up to me now to wade through these final thirty minutes before the clock?s turning hands pump relief into my body like a governor's stay into the condemned.
Another evening of euphoric nothingness will soon be upon me. The carefree ramblings of a friend's dissertation on emptiness will make me smile and keep me warm in a way that coat and scarf never could. I'll laugh, look down in my empty glass, and crawl back to that warm, inviting, coziness hoping to but not finding her and wondering all the while why tomorrow's morning will be just as today's. I?ll smile.
Friday is payday.
************************
Cliffs:
1) I was bored and wrote a story;
2) You were too lazy to read it;
3) ???
4) Piss off. <^>😀<^>
THE OFFICE - A Day in the Life Of
A short story by raptor13
************************
It is a cold and dreary morning, one befitting the night of restless sleep and uncomfortable solitude it follows. The world, shrouded in a blanket of all-encompassing, muted whiteness, seems altogether to have lost the appeal, zest, and vibrance it once held. Snow falls. Students and workers, cursing their responsibilities, their jobs, and, above all, the freezing burn of the morning air, stir and set themselves in halting and bleary motion towards the very same classes and jobs they abhor. I?m awake.
The music blares as I fumble for the off switch. Where the hell is it? Must this radio torture me with its screachingly joyful sounds of DJs and their lackeys, no cares in the world, spewing lord-knows-what? How can they sound so god-damned cheery at this hour? Don't they know they just ruined the best part of my day? The bastards. And then I find it. Click. I shut those f*ckers up good.
Rolling over, reality hits me like a hammer driving nails through soft pine: she's gone. With nothing but the promise of warmth and comfort to keep me in bed, I succumb to the guilt and shame I would feel for yet again skipping out on my morning's work. Altruism at its finest. F*ck that; I'm doing this for the money. The next few minutes see me blithely sliding through a routine which has become all too familiar. The shower, the preparation, the breakfast - I feel numb. A shirt follows pants. The scarf, gloves, and a coat aren't far behind. I look every bit the eager professional I am supposed to be yet I feel nothing but an interesting concoction of apathy and dread. Keys in hand, I clasp the door's handle, shake off the final throws of sleep, and begin my journey through this wasteland of a day.
Sweet sh*t is it cold. Parkinson's patients don't shake this bad. There it is! The sting of cold air enters my head like a bitter slap in the face. My breath shortens as it hangs before me. I pull my coat tight, the car unlocks, and I slide in, reminded all too clearly of the destitution called humanity as the trash bag I use for a window does nothing to muffle the sound of my slamming door and its own ragged fluttering. Unfortunately, the engine cranks to life leaving me no excuse to call this day over. A few rows of the gearshift bring me to a parking space, the half-warm engine mocking me as it has yet to blow anything but the world's freezing bite through the vents it riotously calls the "Heater." At least I get the last laugh. The motor shudders to a halt when the key spins from the ignition. Killing it is the only satisfaction I?ve had thus far and with nothing but a bleak, weary morning to look forward to, I begin to wonder about asphyxiation. A bag finds my shoulder and I clock in.
At least it isn't cold in here. The warm glow of the monitor keeps me sane as the other drones scuttle about their dealings in a very convincing display of dedication and prowess. It's such a sham. I'm unsure whether to laugh or cry at the pathetic sadness of this dog and pony show when I realize, as I have so many times before, that I could be their f*cking poster child. My desire to scream, to tell off this world of drudgery and supposed passion is curbed by the sweet flow of coffee and caffeine now coursing through my veins. I pour a second cup. I could kick these walls down, raze all of their worthless pettiness to the ground but that would halt my collection of paychecks which, as I remind myself, is the only reason I've come back to this hole. I take another sip.
Hours pass as I blindly follow protocol and procedures to fulfill duties in which I have no interest. Fake smiles, feigned enthusiasm, and an underlying current of disgusted loathing accompany every conversation and intra-office interaction in which I partake. I?d deserve an Oscar if I couldn't find better actors populating every other stall of this wretched farm. To call us sheep is unfair; we don't have that kind of autonomy.
Where has the time gone? Lunch came and went, it an exercise in consumerism and gluttony shared amongst friends. Was I sleeping or have the numbing effects of so much Coke and coffee fulfilled their promise of making me alertly unaware? The dazed fog protecting me dissolves as I blink myself back to consciousness. Autopilot had dispatched of whatever detritus the afternoon had rolled my way but, sadly, I?m blinking too soon. It?s up to me now to wade through these final thirty minutes before the clock?s turning hands pump relief into my body like a governor's stay into the condemned.
Another evening of euphoric nothingness will soon be upon me. The carefree ramblings of a friend's dissertation on emptiness will make me smile and keep me warm in a way that coat and scarf never could. I'll laugh, look down in my empty glass, and crawl back to that warm, inviting, coziness hoping to but not finding her and wondering all the while why tomorrow's morning will be just as today's. I?ll smile.
Friday is payday.
************************
Cliffs:
1) I was bored and wrote a story;
2) You were too lazy to read it;
3) ???
4) Piss off. <^>😀<^>
