Ultimate Cage Writing
(Copied from my handwritten notes while at work tonight.)
This office reeks of ass, man. I don't know if a sewer clogged up or if they're cooking fish out there in the restaurant or if it's a funky stripper or what but...uh! The smell kills! *sprays room with more vanilla-scented body spray*
This place is a time warp. Indeed, time seems to be flowing backwards...and collecting. Like friggin' physics, instead of losing minutes, we're MAKING them. It's that painfully slow.
This is "The Cage". So named because I cannot leave it unattended for any long periods of time, what with the large sums of money we're responsible for. And the young lady seated in The Cage is "M", one of my co-workers who visits me in regular intervals, if only to make sure I haven't committed seppuku from teh tedious. M is my eyes and ears in the club and brings me periodic reports on strippers, customers, other co-workers and just the general goings on throughout the night. Feels like a damn cage, too. It's a wonder people don't stop to throw me peanuts or reach through the bank teller window to try and pet me.
These are my two staples: a book and diet coke. If I lack even one of these things, NO ONE has a pleasant shift.
This is how sad it gets -- I will actually PRINT OUT a journal entry I find interesting/amusing/steeped in what-the-fuckery so I can take it to work and reflect on the response I want to write. And then I'll take a pen (and as you see here, also a marker) and make corrections because, yes, I...am...just...that...bored.
Man. Some of you people really suck at syntax.
This is how one can usually find me; sitting ladylike and proper, ready to assist at a moment's notice. The consummate professional. I got these boots on sale at Dillard's. $25 and suede, baybee!
This is my $2,000 paper weight. Because thanks to another someone who abused the privilege, our web access got disabled. Hence, the reason I have alphabetized all the postings on the cork board above the computer. And why I print out journal entries and correct them like a school marm. And why I'm subjecting you all to these substandard photos. And why I am now writing all of this long-hand on tacky letterhead paper as Kanye West assures me he ain't sayin' I'm a gold diggah.
Here. Have a kiss.
Oh wow. I just got the BEST. PHONE CALL. EVAH.
Me: Hello?
Richie: Well, I just had one person shit in another person's car.
(5 minutes later)
Ok, I'm definitely going to have to tell you guys that story later as he is also at work, talking a million miles an hour, and he's already changed the subject three times in the time it took me to write this sentence. (Btw, he's the same guy who tried shocking me with Necrophilia.)
Hang on, this conversation is turning whirlwind and I can't talk on the phone and write at the same time, apparently.
...
....
I'm back. Jesus Christ, I'm recommending this job to anyone with a sleep disorder. Can't seem to catch those z's? Come to work with me, it'll put you right out. And it's made even worse by the fact that tonight was supposed to be my Friday, but got scheduled to work tomorrow night because that dipshit of a trainee got herself fired.
And do you know what tomorrow night is? The employee Christmas party I was going to attend. WAS. With an open bar. And catered food. And presents! And where will I be? Why, I'll be languishing away in the bloody Cage while everyone makes merry and xerox-copies their own hemorrhoids. Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaate.
Whatevs. My wrist hurts now.
This office reeks of ass, man. I don't know if a sewer clogged up or if they're cooking fish out there in the restaurant or if it's a funky stripper or what but...uh! The smell kills! *sprays room with more vanilla-scented body spray*
This place is a time warp. Indeed, time seems to be flowing backwards...and collecting. Like friggin' physics, instead of losing minutes, we're MAKING them. It's that painfully slow.
This is "The Cage". So named because I cannot leave it unattended for any long periods of time, what with the large sums of money we're responsible for. And the young lady seated in The Cage is "M", one of my co-workers who visits me in regular intervals, if only to make sure I haven't committed seppuku from teh tedious. M is my eyes and ears in the club and brings me periodic reports on strippers, customers, other co-workers and just the general goings on throughout the night. Feels like a damn cage, too. It's a wonder people don't stop to throw me peanuts or reach through the bank teller window to try and pet me.
These are my two staples: a book and diet coke. If I lack even one of these things, NO ONE has a pleasant shift.
This is how sad it gets -- I will actually PRINT OUT a journal entry I find interesting/amusing/steeped in what-the-fuckery so I can take it to work and reflect on the response I want to write. And then I'll take a pen (and as you see here, also a marker) and make corrections because, yes, I...am...just...that...bored.
Man. Some of you people really suck at syntax.
This is how one can usually find me; sitting ladylike and proper, ready to assist at a moment's notice. The consummate professional. I got these boots on sale at Dillard's. $25 and suede, baybee!
This is my $2,000 paper weight. Because thanks to another someone who abused the privilege, our web access got disabled. Hence, the reason I have alphabetized all the postings on the cork board above the computer. And why I print out journal entries and correct them like a school marm. And why I'm subjecting you all to these substandard photos. And why I am now writing all of this long-hand on tacky letterhead paper as Kanye West assures me he ain't sayin' I'm a gold diggah.
Here. Have a kiss.
Oh wow. I just got the BEST. PHONE CALL. EVAH.
Me: Hello?
Richie: Well, I just had one person shit in another person's car.
(5 minutes later)
Ok, I'm definitely going to have to tell you guys that story later as he is also at work, talking a million miles an hour, and he's already changed the subject three times in the time it took me to write this sentence. (Btw, he's the same guy who tried shocking me with Necrophilia.)
Hang on, this conversation is turning whirlwind and I can't talk on the phone and write at the same time, apparently.
...
....
I'm back. Jesus Christ, I'm recommending this job to anyone with a sleep disorder. Can't seem to catch those z's? Come to work with me, it'll put you right out. And it's made even worse by the fact that tonight was supposed to be my Friday, but got scheduled to work tomorrow night because that dipshit of a trainee got herself fired.
And do you know what tomorrow night is? The employee Christmas party I was going to attend. WAS. With an open bar. And catered food. And presents! And where will I be? Why, I'll be languishing away in the bloody Cage while everyone makes merry and xerox-copies their own hemorrhoids. Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaate.
Whatevs. My wrist hurts now.