Bored at Work
outside the leaves are falling like rockets from the sky.
the plants shiver like lost children in a snowstorm.
outside it is windy and i wish i was there.
but at the moment i find myself behind my desk in my office with paper and pens and post-it notes and nothing to show for my life. it's my 41st birthday tomorrow and i don't think anyone knows. i go home to my four room penthouse park avenue apartment home.
alone.
with nothing to show for my life.
nothing but the money i save. i keep telling myself i need this money to make me happy. but i can't use it because i'm too busy getting more happiness trade-in's.
each one a little pleasure IOU.
and so as i sit, do nothing, and each second make another ten dollars on stocks, i actually get paid to fart.
every burp another ten bucks.
twenty every time i scratch my ass.
a dollar for every nail i bite.
and still, i have nothing to show for my life. i'll die a tombstone. sure, it'll be the best looking grave in the place, but that will be the sum total of my years.
i stop this foolish thinking when i hear a scratch at the door. the twelve foot pine tree of a door bursts out open. on all fours, a glaringly pink beast trotts in. little grey hairs sprout from random spots on his skin-pink tank, like the hairs at the bottom of an onion. around his barrel of a torso there is a little black waistcoat-jacket that is tied so tight it looks like it will explode at any moment. maybe the little penny-sized buttons will pop off and hit me straight square in the eyes. if im lucky i won't survive it.
this behemoth trotts in, a little black waistcoat covering a lovely silk tie covering a clean white shirt covering a sweaty fatty mass. on this lard's head is a little black top hat. it's shiney and clean against his mudstained pink flesh. he trotts in. i can see a shot of red blood fuse with milky white at the edge of his eyes. the red - a sign of anger.
this pig.
this big greed machine, he crawls in with an unmistakable swagger in his stride. he snorts a grotesque mix of angry pig noises and sweaty spit in my face. after this little attempt at communication i hurridly get back to my work, tap-tap-tapping away at my computer screen as i monotonously reply: "yes boss"
the plants shiver like lost children in a snowstorm.
outside it is windy and i wish i was there.
but at the moment i find myself behind my desk in my office with paper and pens and post-it notes and nothing to show for my life. it's my 41st birthday tomorrow and i don't think anyone knows. i go home to my four room penthouse park avenue apartment home.
alone.
with nothing to show for my life.
nothing but the money i save. i keep telling myself i need this money to make me happy. but i can't use it because i'm too busy getting more happiness trade-in's.
each one a little pleasure IOU.
and so as i sit, do nothing, and each second make another ten dollars on stocks, i actually get paid to fart.
every burp another ten bucks.
twenty every time i scratch my ass.
a dollar for every nail i bite.
and still, i have nothing to show for my life. i'll die a tombstone. sure, it'll be the best looking grave in the place, but that will be the sum total of my years.
i stop this foolish thinking when i hear a scratch at the door. the twelve foot pine tree of a door bursts out open. on all fours, a glaringly pink beast trotts in. little grey hairs sprout from random spots on his skin-pink tank, like the hairs at the bottom of an onion. around his barrel of a torso there is a little black waistcoat-jacket that is tied so tight it looks like it will explode at any moment. maybe the little penny-sized buttons will pop off and hit me straight square in the eyes. if im lucky i won't survive it.
this behemoth trotts in, a little black waistcoat covering a lovely silk tie covering a clean white shirt covering a sweaty fatty mass. on this lard's head is a little black top hat. it's shiney and clean against his mudstained pink flesh. he trotts in. i can see a shot of red blood fuse with milky white at the edge of his eyes. the red - a sign of anger.
this pig.
this big greed machine, he crawls in with an unmistakable swagger in his stride. he snorts a grotesque mix of angry pig noises and sweaty spit in my face. after this little attempt at communication i hurridly get back to my work, tap-tap-tapping away at my computer screen as i monotonously reply: "yes boss"
posted by TokenArtStudent at 10:39:00 pm
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home