Every morning I wake up and throw a smoothie in the blender while I’m getting dressed. Why? Because it’s delicious and I think blueberries are a delight. It’s 7:00 and I’m just shuffling like a three legged horse in need to be put down. It’s a cruel cruel joke to be up that early. I used to wake up at 5:00 am before I realized that I was an idiot. I’m not a farmer. I don’t need to wake up that early. My ancestors fought to survive and it’s like a slap in the face to them to wake up that early. Hey, I don’t need to forage. I make my smoothies in sweet little zip-locks ahead of time. There is zero scrambling about and that’s great! It’s simplicity! You see people on TV rushing about and serving some sort of brunch nonsense. Why? No one needs a kale garnish at 7am. It’s just silly.
I throw on the basic uniform. Dress, belt, Cardigan, Ellen Degeneres Boxer Briefs. There is a reason to this madness and it begins with the dress. If you ever see me in jeans, call the police because something horrible is happening and I’ve finally snapped.
Dresses are the best and here’s some reasons why.
- Pants put your legs in a prison. They are oppressing your legs and it’s just rude.
- In case of apocalypse, the dress can be immediately converted into a cool basket deal in which to horde supplies into like a pioneer woman picking berries.
- They’re adorable and that should be the only reason you need.
At 8, I come in and sit at my desk. It’s only 8 am and already I can feel my soul slowly being eaten by the fickle bitch that is my desk that is really just an old lunch table shoved into a corner, just waiting for Patrick Swayze to come rescue it. I share it with a giant hole punch that dates back to the sixties if not earlier. Usually I’d be all over old stuff like this but I can’t stop thinking about how no one used purell then. It shouldn’t bother me but you just know that there some kind of Mad-Men microbes bustling on that thing. It makes my skin crawl but that’s nothing compared to the monstrosity on the other side of the room.
If the bowels of Hell had a receptionist desk, this is what it would look like. A mug sits on her desk that I know has been filled with that same coffee since Friday. The gnats have already descended and they feast on the curdled cream as the collection of porcelain clowns in various stages of plotting to murder me look on. It’s some lord of the flies nonsense. The desk is littered with nail clippings and various spills now molded into the wood. A plastic model of a fetus hangs out in a jar of pencils in assorted states of chewed. Initials of Satan’s mistress and her husband who doesn’t believe in deodorant are carved into what once was a beautiful desk. Possibly walnut, but the grime will never tell. Crumbs are scattered as if placed there by a elderly old woman who just wanted to feed the pretty birds. But the birds never came.
The birds never came.
A pair of dingy headphones and an old space heater rest on the floor. The mouse and pad are both stained and encrusted with God knows what. I don’t look at the keyboard. I once cleaned the desk while she was gone. It took me an entire day and three razor blades but I did it. It was glorious when I was done. I had spent all day scraping spilled fluids and unknown substances. Everything was as if it had never happened. I thought me and desk might be able to be together. We could healeach other and over time learn to cope with what we had seen. But I was wrong our affair was not to be as she returned the next day. As I sit at my desk, settling in for a day of disappointment I hear something. A sound. A sound like two blind baboons dragging a sack of gravel across a concrete floor. And then I knew.
Polly was here.
Watch out for the next post! Probably be up tomorrow.