saturday overtime

live from a grey office.

Trying to appear busy, busy. Work time. Office. I am typing away on this laptop, appearing serious. The mean face doesn’t work, it invites even more questioning from coworkers whom I wouldn’t mind killing WWE style. Or running over them with a bike. I don’t know how to drive so it is very likely.

I practice in my head. A Game of Practice. Who. Whom. Whilst. Whistle. Whereas. Whereabouts. Whistleblower. Windblower. Windcheater. Windshield. Window.

But check your window (swag). He’s at your window (window).

One, two, you’re you're the girl that I want. Three, four, fivesixsevenshit.

Eight is the bullets if you say no after all this

And I just couldn't take it, you're so motherfucking gorgeousgorgeousbabyyou're gorgeous

I just wanna drag your lifeless body to the forest

And fornicate with it, but that's because I'm in love with you cunt.

People conversing. A work trip next month. I’d rather not go. They just booked my tickets. I hate this. Looking even more serious now. Resting bitch face. Normal woman face. Thinking about what next will taste the same as I Love Dick. Or The Piano Teacher. I want my next book to be so good it churns me on the inside.

Every Saturday working until this conference is over. Whom shall I complain to so that I have a solution to this. Maybe a weekly leg breaking ritual. Putting an ad on Craigslist right now.

WANTED

A PERSON WHO IS WILLING TO HARM ME ENOUGH TO GAIN SYMPATHY AND A DAY OFF FROM WORK. ROUTINE JOB. EVERY FRIDAY. CONTRACT BASIS. BRING YOUR OWN WEAPON, SURPRISE ME.

I fantasise about things that are impossible at the moment. A trip to Greece. Hell, even a trip to Goa. Rain on my face, a soft dress on my body. Good food right now. But I am not hungry. I had lunch with coworkers, made them laugh. I am so lovely and smart and cool and chill and young and in touch. Wow. Proud of myself. Good job. A sticker is deserved. A bullet too.

Somebody is wearing an ugly shirt in the office. His glasses are ugly too. Haircut as well. If I look at him long enough, I might end up scrunching my nose and looking worse. Off putting. Don’t do that, you just had a good day. You just felt connected with your other coworker about how his number ends with 767, and yours begins with it.

The shirt is burnt sienna. I remember Camel oil pastels, the nicest medium, the worst one for me. All mediums are bad if your soul is rotten. I should buy oil pastels and take up on the impossible task of colouring my entire wall with it. Bit by bit. I need things to channel my crazyrestlessbitesizedwormparasite in my body. Feed it something to fend it.

Maybe I should take up knitting, until one day the needle ends in my eye; DIY lobotomy.

I think of this laptop, a medium between you and I. An angel, not guarding but waiting to be used and abused by me. Should I search up dirty pictures? What if a siren goes off in the office when I try to do that, and everybody comes and laughs at me and shames me. This Loser Cunt wants to look at boobs, and ass, and pictures of bodies and desire and people and what not. Reading yaoi on company time. Boss makes a dollar, I swallow up my dime. Coins are angels in the hands of children, who are strutting on their way to the local shop to buy chips and cold drinks and toffees. A lift is a machine, man-made angel. Empty until. Vessel carrying things. I leave messages by pressing random buttons. I picture an empty lift opening on emptier floors, waiting, waiting. Sentient until something clickstarts it. One of my favourite things to do at my last workplace was to press all the buttons on the lift, and frustrate everybody. I worked on the top floor, so when I would leave at the end of the day, in the basement, I would press all the buttons, I would picture the lift opening and closing on all floors, silent floors with electrical buzz of weapons of mass civilizations (bulbs, fans, ACs, computers), unsure of itself, but carrying on, carrying on.

I wish I were a moth stuck in a tube light, in a busy, grimy, cheap restaurant in a fast city – plastic tables and chairs, colourful plastic water bottles, maybe an aquarium on the side – and I got to see people, even in my death conscience, eating and talking and hating life as we know it. I wish I wasn’t one of those people at all.

no source found… tried reverse image as well :/