Wednesday, September 01, 2004

the only exercise I get

In this office, my cubicle, my box of horror, is the one closest to the door. That's where they put you when they hate you. Because, you see, the door is always locked, supposedly for security. You have to have a pass to get through the door. A special pass, too. You can't just use your fourth floor pass way up here, no sir. You need an eighth floor pass to open the gates to THIS hell.
So bitches be losin' their passes all the time. Also, temps and interns are not allowed to have passes. But they are expected to be at work daily, so they have to come up and knock on the door by my cage, and I have to open it.
Besides driving me EVEN CRAZIER, this defeats all building security procedures. If you felt like sneaking into a building full of misery--perhaps your own supplies of wretchedness are running low, and you want to steal a sackful?--you could easily do so. First, you just waltz by the sleepy sentry by the elevator. A short elevator ride later, you smash your face against the glass and bang away on the door. Sooner or later a pissed-off looking, broken-spirited woman will come and smack it open with an open palm, turn on her heel, and stalk back to her cell of torment.
Pretending not to hear the tap-tap-tapping doesn't work. I've tried. Eventually someone else will hear and come stomping by my chair, see me, and realize what a bitch I am. So that's out. So ten times a day I sigh, roll my eyes, and shove back my chair to open the door for some idiot who can't keep a pass pinned to their shirt. Next time I'm asking three riddles, dammit.

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