I have work!

At long last, after months of blunting the razor-edged slingblade that is my grey matter with sodium, glucose, sucrose, dextrose, maltose, dosetose and ambidextrose, I get some real honest-to-goodness-bona-fide-brain-cooking-eye-watering- hair-follicle-loosening-weirdo-tech-comm-any-old-how-edit-a-
300-page-doc work!

Whoo Hoo?

Don't get me wrong. I welcome the work. I welcome the opportunity to earn my measly pay and flex some neurons, nevermind that my cube has no ceiling light.. At least I got my name on the wall...Oh, those medals on the wall of my cube? They're not mine. Neither are the STC awards on the wall. Nope. Those belong to Robin Boldt. Who's Robin? The owner of the cube in which I have been assigned to work/squat for the duration of my training. I occupy the cube, but the final reality belongs to Robin. Stuff around me resonates of Robin (other than having her name on it, of course), but thankfully doesn't smell of Robin (unlike my roomie, whose fragrance fills the apartment in which I am condemned to live). Nope. On a more cosmic time scale, I am merely a ghost, flitting aimlessly about, anchored by invisible bonds to this confined space.

Once in a few half-lives of a free neutron, I am driven by primal urges (sweat, odour, narcolepsy) to seek a less bounded domain: This is where I freeze my butt off every work day.