Boss Makes A Dollar I Make A Dime, That's Why I Substack on Company Time
I am using Substack at work. It is my silent protest against these austere cubicle walls and this agreeable-beige existence. There are no pictures on my walls because my memories do not matter. Not here, at least. Here I am temporary. Here I am replaceable. My office is not my own. It’s a pair of bowling shoes being loaned out to anybody with low enough self-esteem to accept it. (Luckily, no sign of athlete’s foot yet) The only sign of my existence within this office is my spider plant. She droops in the corner next to a bottle of hand sanitizer and the dysfunctional analog clock. Her gentle resignation to a world without fresh air and sunlight fosters a sense of kinship between her and me. Our collective sufferance behind these neutral walls allows me to persist.
Right now, I am avoiding talking to someone. With all my might, I am trying to circumvent the inevitable. No matter how much I shift in my chair, shuffle through the same 6 tabs, the end inches closer. The person is dull and there is nothing more draining than dullness. Lacking curiosity is like lacking blood, bones, pus, and flesh. Sterility without purity is just un-human and robotic. It smells like cardboard and tastes like cornhusks. I would rather pluck out each one of my eyelashes than spend another minute in another mindless discussion.
Utter dullness is devastating. Think about the unwillingness to think. After being offered guidelines and a hand to hold, and after being prompted with leading questions, the only response, “What do I do?” Must you beg me for ideas? I am not your mommy bird, regurgitating my life into you. Some things need to be earned. Whenever I speak to people who are simply containers for other’s thoughts, dread becomes me. There is a certain flatness behind the eyes, and a certain necessity that is so... American. It is the product of convenience and efficiency reigning as God.
Thinking about dullness, or the apathetic atrophy of thoughts terrifies me. It terrifies me because in this world, thoughts are sacred. They are our only true possession. Though they are metaphysical and not tangible, they are the only thing we have control over, yet we relinquish control with such ease. Our thoughts shape the world we live in, how we embody time, and how we choose to experience and sense our surroundings is ours. We need to sink our teeth into our lives.
Sitting in my ergonomic office chair with my phone on silent, I am trying to reclaim my mind. My heart is racing as I ignore all necessary tasks to indulge in the pleasure of typing away. As I feign productivity, time feels extended. I can do more within it, it is mine to manipulate. Right now, I think I will manipulate it to take a life-ruining shit on company time.