Begging 4 a Job

It’s rancid…Begging for something you don’t even really want. It’s plain awful to NEED something you don’t even DESIRE. It’s a contradiction of magnificent proportions.

Um, please Mr. Man, please…I need this job. I have bills to pay. Yes, I can file your papers and type your reports for tiny paychecks while you buy your second BMW fully loaded.

I feel like a desperate worker. Here I am in a metropolis where jobs are bountiful and I’m begging for office work. I’m actually begging to be stuck in notorious commuter traffic. I’m begging to be tethered to a partition with other vocational prisoners.

I’m begging to be unhappy. That is my roundabout request.

I’m begging to give up my life, my real dreams for the next several years, perhaps.

I’m begging to spend no less than eight hours a day in a box surrounded by other boxes.

I’m begging to share a public bathroom with random coworkers who have no clue of hand washing during this same block of time.

I’m begging to bring my lunch to work and stuff it in a fridge with people I have no desire to eat anything with. Especially Weird Coworker Bob.  Still unconvinced that that’s really tuna.

I’m begging, groveling to be recognized for my typing skills and my ability to fax, copy and build Excel charts from the “blah, blah, blah” I just took notes on in conference room A.

I’m begging to be a mannequin that breathes.

This is sick.