Your Mission, if You Choose to Accept It...

I wanted to try this, to give people a glimpse into what a day "on the job" feels like. Now, I've written about a normal day here, but no one has really seen it in real time format. Following the format of play by play sports and pornographic webcams, here is what is happening...right now. I feel like Jack Bauer, just without the intelligence, ability, or lung capacity (my father once actually said "24" is basically 60 minutes of screaming). Cue the clock on the bottom of your screen. It's go time.

8:17 am: Rode elevator up with a woman wearing velcro shoes. I'd like to be able to say that she is the exception to the laced shoe rule, and no one else does this. Alas, it'd be an outright lie, because she in fact is the third person I know that wears these shoes that, when Googled, bring up hits on hip injuries and customer service for children. How lazy do you have to be to not be willing to take the five seconds to do this? I have a sneaking suspicion that she, in fact, doesn't know how to do this, so that's why she resorts to the old velcro method. She's also the same woman who nags people (specifically me) about not turning the copier back to its default paper size when I'm done. I guess she just doesn't have the time to do some of life's simpler tasks. Great way to start the day.

8:23 am: The annoying guy who sits behind me is on the phone with his wife again. Now, let me give you a little backstory behind him: He used to be a person I looked up to (eek) at this dump, thinking he was someone who didn't take all of this too seriously and I could look to them for guidance and help when most people would be more willing to online shop or use their hotplate at their desk for early cooking (both true stories). But after awhile, the curtain was pulled away, and I saw him for what he really was: a pathetic joke of a foreigner who thought he was impressive because he was a "Senior Manager." Honestly, what does that even mean? That's like one of those titles you give children when you bring them into a police station and let them get fingerprinted. Yet, he still made a ton of money for doing literally nothing but making calls to his wife, mother, grandmother, barber, etc. And I wouldn't care so much if I didn't hear it, but the man speaks as if he's talking through two cans and a straw and there's no reception. It's not so much a chat as a scream. In another language. I'm all for equality and no discrimination, I mean this is the United States. But when the guy is doing it while I'm trying to read my blogs, for instance (as I'm not doing work, obviously) it becomes a problem. The worst part of it all was that he actually disciplined me for doing the exact same thing last summer. I didn't have an answer to some question, and he became incredibly peeved (this was one of the few times he was at his desk; he typically goes to the prayer room they've constructed within the building for the other Muslims on the sixth floor frequently) and told me he wanted to see me in the conference room, which is typically where they have boring and unnecessary meetings, as well as God-awful cringe inducing parties (that's for another post). Anyway, he took me into it and immediately began to tell me how I was on the phone too much and not getting my work done and that I basically needed to clean up my act. Initially I was taken aback and saw it as a sign to start changing my ways and putting more effort in, a wake-up call so to speak. But after that day, our relationship changed. I saw his corporate side and I didn't like it. How dare him to chastize me when he was doing essentially the same thing! He would call or receive calls from his wife (I assume) daily, and they'd talk at lengths for 20-30 minutes, likely about her not taking better care of their four kids (he is also not even 35 yet, by the way) or how dinner better be served as soon as he got home or else she may get the switch. But I'm just assuming. He also had this grating habit of constantly coughing and clearing his throat, it was like he was chronically sick all year long. The stupid British/Middle Eastern accent wasn't helping either. I'm sure this makes me come off as Rush Limbaugh, but it's all the truth.

But after the verbal brow beating, I stopped reaching out to him or being friendly. No more hellos, goodbyes, God bless yous. He was completely cut off from my verbal interactions. It made work somewhat tenuous, as I had to constantly appear to be working, as a year later he would Henry Hill me and tell my actual boss (he now was promoted, again, and I no longer worked with him) basically the same thing he told me the summer before. It was incredibly angering to the point where I should have spoke up and said what I knew about him, but again, I took it on the chin and kept moving. But now, it's officially over. I haven't spoken to him in months and I want to keep it that way. If he does one more low class thing, then I'm screaming from the rooftops about what he is and does. I'm done with this double standard nonsense that exists here. Also, as a last little stab, his breath reeks of God knows what, so if you ever encounter this pathetic excuse for a human, make sure to wear your gas mask or at least be 100 feet back, like they say on those fireman t-shirts. Thankfully he's at a meeting right now. No wait, he keeps coming back, secretly taking notes and sending them over the wire like Morse code to my boss. Seriously, every one leaves this place between 3:30 (New Jersey residents actually sprint across the lobby as soon as the half past 3 hits on the dial; it's like being Simba in the Lion King; you're not surviving if you get caught in that stampede) and 4:30. No one is left in this building. Except for me, and him sitting behind me. I constantly feel like I'm being spied on. Little unnerving, and probably contributing to my ever growing resentment of all humankind. Thank god for places like this.

9:00 am: My boss came by earlier to ask about some stupid contract I'm working on. She didn't come in yesterday due to not feeling well. Now, typically that's an acceptable reason for not coming into work, but for me, I feel like I need to call in the Mayo Clinic to have them do a complete dissertation as to why I couldn't come in one day. If I'm not sick and I just call out (which is typical), I have to come up with an elaborate reason as to why I can't come in, so I resort to illnesses that were borne out of pioneer days, or maybe just the Oregon Trail: dysentery, cholera, starvation. And even then, I still feel like I'll have someone come by like a truant officer and ask for a stool sample. It's like being a prisoner of your own home. But since she's a manager, and if the glove don't fit you must acquit, then she can do what she pleases. She also has left work early to make sports bets on World Cup games because she had free time, and also gets ashes on Ash Wednesday during work.

10:20am: Just spoke with a co-worker and another manager who works in the field about the Mets. They are actually two guys I like. While one is the typical Long Island Guido (but more lapsed; though he does wear the St. Anthony's cross or whatever), he's a nice guy who appears be grounded and not eternally single or bitter towards the opposite sex like most people here. The other manager is equally as helpful. I really don't have anything bad to say about them, but I will say the Mets suck. This isn't a sports blog, but dear God are they bad. They make routine easy out plays into Cirque Soleil theatrics, and they find new ways to lose. But at least they're not the Yankees.

10:32am: Going to scan some documents from my other proctoring job. It's a great side job, as I get paid (slave wages, unfortunately) to sit around and watch kids take tests. And by "watch," I mean go on the Internet, listen to my iPod, and walk around the building. Unfortunately, I am the resident "scan bitch" at my full-time job. Apparently me taking a document, feeding it into the machine, and e-mailing it is like man inventing fire and it's a crazy concept no one can grasp. I think it's more laziness than anything, personally. And since I lack the stones to make this an issue, I just do it. I need to get this timesheet in by 12 or I don't get my $40, so time is of the essence.

10:47am: Finally got the timesheet scanned and sent off. While there, I had a nice conversation with George (at least, I think that's his name), the college intern who works here. I think I'm just about the only one who gives him any type of acknowledgment, so I always make sure to be nice to him. He doesn't need to be exposed to the cruel world that is the job yet. He probably already knows about it. He just asked if I had read any good books lately, so I told him about one I'm reading about the NCAA and a few others I read about blackjack (not that I'm turning into some type of card counter; I barely know basic rules of the games, that's why I stick to roulette: color or number, that's it). While there, I saw what appeared to be an attractive girl (shocking for this place) in a suit taking her writing test for working here. I wanted to yell out to her to turn back, it's not worth it, but alas, I couldn't. I remember that test too: they wanted you to formulate a response letter to someone who didn't pay you or something on time, something that has no relevance to this place at all. They really should be giving psychological background tests here at the interview; that'd eliminate probably about 1000 of the people currently working here right off the bat. I then saw this girl I'm "creeping" on (my new favorite word) walking back from the water cooler. Now, this girl and I have a sordid history (not really; she had a boyfriend, we flirted a bit, but nothing materialized). But lately, I had been getting really good vibes from her and thought maybe I had a chance. I have yet to strike while the iron's hot (or as one woman said, "beat the iron while it’s hot") I have this setup where all the co-workers go out to Happy Hour, we end up alone, and the rest is history. The only problem is, I work here, so the people are socially awkward, requiring months and months of advance notice on even the simplest of events, so I may be out of luck. But, I remain steadfast in the belief I can make this happen.

11:20am: I already start the lunch countdown clock in my head around 10am. Today is lasagna (homemade, actually). It's no street meat, but it'll save me $5 today (I refuse to pay over $7.00 and change for lunch, I'm no Wall Street tycoon like everyone else down here). I also just exited the bathroom, which has been discussed before. It's gotten so bad my friend actually will get out from another stall if someone sits next to him, and applies ample rolls of toilet paper into his nostrils to avoid any type of stench that may emanate from said urination chamber (the "urination room" has obviously upgraded). Me, I just use it for urination only like I was supposed to, and outsource my longer sessions for the downstairs floor one or home. I've also slept on the toilet before, just so I wasn't sleeping at my desk. This involves a lot of maneuvering mostly in terms of where to place your head. My friend does the "head in hands, elbows on knees" method, (I believe this was invented in the Renaissance period, but I'm not sure). I prefer the head-lean, but that means putting your head on a wall and hoping you don't get a severe neck cramp from the angle you're resting it at. This is usually good for about one 5-10 cat nap to get a little more energy. I'll be heating up Garfield's favorite food soon, and will then go outside to do my next favorite thing while here: staring at girls. (Sidenote: Just saw a guy walk out of the building wearing running attire: good for him, but you always get such weird reactions from people when you appear to be in something other than pants. Like it's disturbing that people do other things in their free time besides sleeping before work starts the next day). I promise that's not as creepy as it sounds.

12-12:58pm: Just got back from lunch. The halftime show basically consists of walking around trying to burn off whatever you just ate (lasagna was ok, need to use more sauce next time) and checking out the ladies. My friend and I have found the new perfect spot: before it was outside Goldman Sachs (because women who work there deserve to be objectified) and now it's outside Starbucks, thee of the free wi-fi and overpriced food and beverage products. This appears to be the Five Points of where we work: women trickle down from all corners and all pass this Starbucks. It's a great place to be standing outside of: typically I like to keep my sunglasses on so I can't be seen staring, but today I decided to just go all natural. It also happens to be full of tourists, unfortunately. But I'm not a complainer. That wasn't even the highlight of today's session. That award goes to Faceplant woman, who walked down the street today and got real affectionate with the sidewalk. It all happened so fast, but the best part was seeing four or five people stopping to stare at her and then walking away. Either stop and pick her remains up (no teeth/blood on ground, however, I did check) or don't break your gait. I was of the latter group. I should probably do some work at this point too, though I haven't worked this hard since the last entry...I sense a pattern here...

2:23pm: Actually doing work, unfortunately. Made a bunch of calls to Project Managers. One of them is a nice man, but a loose cannon unwilling to play ball like a good bureaucrat, which some find refreshing, others find annoying. I liked him. He apparently once told some guy not to mess with his cousin who got beat up, that he "knew people." People here don't mess around, for real. The other is a real old school Italian who has no idea what a computer is and used to be a valet for someone who works out there. At least they are willing to listen and help, unlike many other neanderthals who get a hefty paycheck from here.

2:33pm: Just picked up monster contract from the file room. I have over 10 binders full of paper on my desk as we speak. Easily 2000 pages currently engulfing me. If I threw a piece of tinder on here with a small spark my cubicle would light up like a fireworks display. A little scary to think about, actually. It's so unnecessary to keep piling these things up. You answer one question and yet you have to keep this monstrosity in your very small cell for months, even years after the fact. I have this nightmare where I stack them up in a pile then all of a sudden I sneeze, and they all come crashing down on me like a house of cards. Then I'd die at work, in my desk. I can't think of a worse way to go. Well, maybe cancer.

3:25pm: This is the time where I have an internal (and sometimes not so internal) battle with staying awake to fight off the boredom. The post lunch time swing is the hardest part of the day, as you just ate some calorie-laden food full of carbs (read: lasagna) and have no real work left to do (or don't want to do). You sit around, read some websites, listen to some music (I prefer the upbeat sounds of Pulse NY), but it all is futile to fighting off that exhaustion. I tend to walk around or talk to someone verbally, just to keep myself moving. Today will be me trying to not think of anything sleep related, like a hammock, warm milk, or a bed. It's all psychological but sometimes it works. I tend to stop doing work at this point also. Things can always be put off until tomorrow is my motto.

4:01pm: After searching on various websites for some last minute end of summer buys (I don't even know if it's even worth it to buy new sunglasses, for example, but oh well), we have hit the home stretch...4:00. Thirty more minutes to freedom. This is also the time when the great e-mails from the job come out: the retirement and the bereavement flyers. There seems to be a lot more bereavement than retirement. These gems usually include a horrible looking photo of said retiree or dead person, along with some inspirational quote or poem attached to it (the worst offender being about someone who died recently and someone writing a poem about it, saying "you wore khakis everyday, and now you don't"; not a direct quote but pretty close). The party is usually overpriced at some terrible restaurant in Queens or Brooklyn, some place every other person who retired from this place goes to. You can expect everyone to act completely awkward and uncomfortable at these events, and you'll not want to be caught dead at them. That's why I haven't attended any type of party since early 2009, probably. I couldn't physically afford them anymore, and it was physically difficult to see these people in social environments outside of this zoo. It's like Jurassic Park; the T-Rex was meant to hunt, not be fed the goat on the crane. Same concept here. These at least give me a couple minutes to kill before I fill up my water bottle from their odd tasting water coolers, rinse out my tupperware container, and prepare the arduous journey back home and prepare myself to do this all over again tomorrow. So that's my day in a very complicated and frustrating nutshell. It's basically time wasting, eating, and checking out women. If only I could actually put that on my resume, it'd answer a lot of questions. Anyhow, thanks for playing. This entry will self-destruct in 30 seconds...

Has it really been three years?

Wow. As I sit at home on another wash out of a Saturday, I realized that June 18 is the third anniversary of C-Day. No, this is not a typo where you think I mean D-Day, I mean C-Day as in "Cubicle Day," the day I started at this barren wasteland and have continued to fight to this day. I guess minus the whole storming the beaches and possessing that never say die attitude, and oh yeah, the little fighting Nazis thing, then the two days are very similar. Both days had a common enemy: the Germans for the soldiers and the cube for me. Both faced insurmountable odds in winning, and yet still persevered. Now, time will tell if I'll be able to have this moment, but I'd like to think I will. I'm so done with my life in New York right now. Everything has really come to a head and as I sat alone for most of the day today, I realized that it is time to move on. This Chicago idea has really saturated my thoughts and mind all week, but I still hadn't fully committed to it until today. I guess I was looking for every reason not to go, just mainly because I didn't know if I'd have the money to do it, the resources, the drive. But now, I know I have to put my whole effort into it. It may not give me everything I want, and it may not even make me happier, but I at least have to try. I keep telling people about it, and even I am starting to believe it. I'm not so naive to think it will happen overnight; it's going to take significant effort and maybe some luck to put this into motion. But it's time to start doing something...enough is enough.

I actually went back and read some of my old blog posts, and realized how little things have changed for me. Sure, I was able to cross of #1 on my list of 2009 New Year Goals, but what else have I really done? For example, let's look at this post from when I first started working, in 2007:

Because I view my job as the enemy; I must slay it before it consumes me. If I stay here longer than six months I'll be very upset. I don't want to be someone that stays in a job for 30 years for job security or because I grow complacent with it. That's how so many people are there. They wish they could get out but they don't have the energy or just don't care. And they still complain. I'm a firm believer that you can always change your stars, no matter how old or how late in life. It's just how much of yourself you're willing to dedicate to it. So let's hope my stars change. Because I really can't take it anymore. But for now, I have to keep a smile on my face and my head down. Someone's gotta pay for my beer money.

This was written on November 14, 2007. I was five months into the job and already hated it. I really thought I would be able to score something else quickly. But to paraphrase Jim Halpert, "Oh, Young Dan, There's just so much I need to warn you about. And yet, tragically, I cannot." So I stayed put.

There was even a point when I was, gasp, happy?!


The job itself is, unbelievably, not that bad right now. Sure, I'm still looking for any excuse to get out, but I'm closing in on 6 months. The pay is decent, and will only go up. The benefits are to die for. But am I truly happy? I can't really say.

This is still only November 28 of the same year. Flashforward to now. No raise, pay is barely covering my expenses, and I'm still there. The last sentence really speaks volumes.

Now we're into the very beginning of 2008:

I sometimes think leaving that job will be bad. Our staff is grossly understaffed and losing another person would be bad for morale. But then I think, I really don't care if I do. I'll give them the professional courtesy and leave after two weeks, but I don't think I owe them more than that. I guess a part of me thinks since this was my first job, I owe it to them to stay. My parents seem to think I should stick it out, even if they don't say that directly. I know it has excellent job security, good potential for advancement, etc. But I swear, if I'm still there by the summer, please take me out back and beat me with a switch. I refuse to stay in a place just because it's safe and secure. That's the attitude of a lot of people there, and I'll be damned if I add to the list. I've applied to other positions and been let down each time. I've learned not to invest too much energy into anything; you'll just be let down.


The whole "hey, I'm set for life, maybe I should just stick this out" mindset was long gone at this point. You can see how beaten I was becoming. It would really just evolve into more angst as the years went on and the posts got angrier.

I just need to get that energy back I once had. I still cannot accept the idea that I've "peaked." If this is all that life is, then maybe I'll go play in traffic on the Brooklyn Bridge. Because I'll be damned if this is all I have to look forward to. I guess I'm just fairly depressed lately; nothing really seems to be happening for me, even though I try to hide my malcontent. I'm trying to stay positive through all of this, hoping that something good can come from this. Chicago is renewing my focus and determination, I think. I hope that this post from 11/19/07 is something I can get back to real soon. But I just don't know anymore.

But in more upbeat news, I've seemed to get my spirit back. After a previous job I applied for gave me a tease and ultimately let me down, I read an article from my favorite magazine, Men's Health (had to plug it) today while working out. It was a pretty straightforward article about a guy trying to make the Dallas Cowboys roster as essentially a walk-on. It wasn't really the athlete that got me motivated; it was the language the author used. It was like he was speaking directly to me. I know that this job isn't for me, and there's no reason to ever stop trying. Because if this missed internship has told me anything, it's that I do have something to offer. I think I tend to overanalyze and underestimate myself. Maybe I'm a realist; maybe I'm just pessimistic. I haven't decided yet. I always go into a situation with low expectations; because when you think like that, you can never be let down. It's always worked for me. But now I feel like I shouldn't sell myself short. I was discouraged and unwilling to take another risk and be let down. But after reading this article, I felt a renewed sense of initiative, if that makes sense. I'm going to get a better job, something I like. I will not be one of those "lifers" who looks back 30 years from now and wonders "What if." I want to be the guy who says, "I did." If it takes a paycut and more hours, so be it. No one should ever feel like they can't change the course of their lives. And since I'm young, this is the time when I have the financial and economical freedom to switch positions. Like a quarterback, I can still call an audible before the play is called. It's once that play is called that I have to make a decision. But you can never win without at least going deep once. Read this article, and maybe you can be as inspired as I was:
http://www.menshealth.com/cda/article.do?site=MensHealth&channel=guy.wisdom&category=life.lessons&conitem=6787ef56737f5110VgnVCM20000012281eac____

"Everyone has a dream. Most of us never realize that dream. It hovers before us like a star over water (or green AstroTurf), luring us on. The prospect of lunging forward and taking hold of that dream is a startling one, maybe even frightening. (What if you miss? What if you don't? What will you dream about if your dream becomes a reality?) But when the moment of opportunity arrives, it's the courage to make that lunge, regardless of the outcome, that separates the achievers from the mediocre."

Letter of De-Recommendation

Now, I don't claim to be anything I'm not. I know I'm not the smartest guy in the world, or the tallest, or the best looking. But, aside from all that, I still feel I am fairly intelligent and can hold a conversation. You would think these two characteristics would be ones just about anyone has (aside from maybe Gator), but you forget, I do not work with mere average normal people. So when I asked the Worldly Commuter (he of the three hour commute) to write me a simple letter of recommendation, little did I know what I was in store for. I've attached a copy of it for your reference on the left. I've removed my name and his, if only to protect the innocent (me) and the stupid (him). I'd like to highight the good parts and translate it into regular speak, if for nothing but to further illustrate what I'm dealing with:




















"...Very attentive, well groomed, respectful, eager to learn, and receptive to all directions."

Translates to: "He can pay attention and be as obedient as a dog. He also will never bring in head lice, pink eye, or any type of other disgusting childlike disease into the workplace."

"...Also writes very well and was progressing very favorably."

Translates to: "Unlike the other neanderthals that work here, he actually can string coherent sentences together and knows how to spell common words like 'pizza'. He also was too normal when he started, full of vigor and joy, so we had to beat it out of him like a kid who stole money from his mother's purse. He is slowly starting to become one of us."

"I am aware, however, that his current management has challenged him with progressively more difficult work assignments."

Translates to: "The work has gotten harder yet he hasn't gotten dumber yet? That is truly remarkable. We have to give him head lice, and fast."

I guess in the long run, writing a "true" letter of recommendation would have been just too unusable, more so than this one. This "recommendation" probably wouldn't get me a job as the guy that cleans up after elephants, let alone a real job. I guess I should have expected this from a guy who stuffs more envelopes into his pocket than a stripper with singles. Seriously, the pocket is just about suffocating from manila asphyxiation, it's so packed to the brim. I'm sure he spent hours on it, trying to make it sound presentable and smart sounding. Or maybe, like I suspect, he took about five minutes at his desk, looked up some synonyms for "nice", "intelligent", and "writing", and hastily put it together. He is one of two employees that decided to stay longer and make more money off the "Cash for Clunkers" deal I spoke of previously. One former employee simply said, "Well, it makes sense. He needs the years." And while most of these old farts spend the remainder of their adult lives traveling or at least not working, this guy plans to join a resume writing class and get another job! And he's over 55! Seriously, this place is devoid of all reason. It's like they don't know what to do with themselves when they don't have to work anymore. And they can't just sit around with their wives, because they suck and boss them around. Work is their only refuge from misery. And that is the saddest part about it.

I am heavily considering leaving all of this behind and moving to Chicago with a friend of mine. He recently got offered a position at Fox News and it is almost 100% that he will get it. It's just a matter of when. That kind of awakened something in me again. I get this feeling every once in awhile when some new job comes out or there is a rumor of something good happening; I guess you can call it hope. I tend to always have low expectations at this point, since whenever I get excited about something I am let down. So I think it's easier to just expect the worse and anything good that comes out of it is a bonus. But this Chicago thing? At first, I was thinking that it'd be a lot of work to do this, expensive, too far from my family, etc. Basically I thought up every reason not to do it, but never thought about how it'd be if I did it. I can just do the same thing in New York-- get a roommate, split costs, find a new job. But I've lived on my own so long I don't think I could live with someone again, unless it was in a completely new place. And finding a job here hasn't exactly been like shooting fish in a barrel, so that mindset is basically out. So obviously, things aren't exactly great for me right now. This presents to me the opportunity I'm looking for. Chicago is a great city; like a smaller New York. Cheaper cost of living, and splitting costs will save me money. I know it's not like I can just quit my job and move there; I could work in a bar like Sam Malone, but that's not smart. I know I have to do my homework before I dive into anything. But this is something I need to do, before I become just like everyone else. I'm just a little worried that I will get out there and things don't pick up and I regret things. But maybe for the first time in a long time, I need to shoot high. I gotta keep trying at least, wherever I end up. Because this cannot keep up. Or I am totally going to end up like this guy.

I'm So Done...

I had a small epiphany today. While I was busy negotiating over the phone and typing up reports (i.e. reading sports blogs and closing/opening Outlook to create the illusion I was doing work), I realized I have to keep writing. Too often I come onto the computer after a long day and after eating some bland dinner (you'll never see me cooking anything exotic beyond beef stir fry...and even that comes with instructions for the most part) and catching up on the various blogs I actually can't check at work (stupid firewall), I just troll around until it's time to shower and sleep. That is a really bad existence. Which brings me back to writing. It was, no, is, the one thing I actually still have going for me. Granted, I don't see myself writing the next great American novel (I wouldn't be bad at the whole James Frey thing though, I think...just because it only requires a vivid imagination and a really convincing stare), but I know I am capable of putting words, thoughts, ideas, on paper that people can relate to and maybe even laugh at. My goal when I started this was to be about the daily happenings at my job, to highlight the absurdity and terribleness of it all, and also to keep me half-sane in knowing that maybe somewhere, someone, could understand what I was dealing with, and how it seemed like I was slowly losing my fight with the darkside. But, after thinking about it, I knew that I wasn't. I was winning, because while most people I worked with would go home and wait for the next work day, I was at least doing something I still enjoyed. And who knows? Maybe someone will read this and think to themselves, "This kid may be onto something. Let's give him a million dollars and all the women he wants." Or, more likely, it'll go unnoticed in the general blogosphere, right in between Lonelygrl15 and any blog about Twilight. Either way, I need to keep on this. Someone remind me. Or just not read. Most tend to take the latter anyway.

The biggest news at ye old working hole (does that work? Didn't think so) is the reshuffling of management. They can't hire anyone new because their budget deficit is something like (puts pinky to side of lip) OVER 500 MILLION DOLLARS. So there's just no money to promote some other outside person and convert them into the cubicle zombie they crave. It's much easier to just take one of the already programmed drones and put them into another undeserved place of leadership.

Now, I'm actually happy with the movement being done in my department. A lot of people have taken this early retirement program (I call it "Cash for Clunkers") and will cash out their mountains of sick time, vacation time, overtime, and personal days along with receiving a cap of $20,000 on top of that. It's pretty ridiculous when you think about it. Other companies give out sick time likes it's gruel for Oliver Twist, and you have this company issuing a sick day a month. Vacation is also laughable; after less than 10 years I believe you move up to about five weeks of time off. Really? And while you would think most people would take this time and, oh I don't know, NOT BE AT WORK, most just bank it and wait until retirement so they can cash it out. Then add in personal leave days, floating holidays, days off because you have an A in your name, and the amount of money this place will be paying out to these dinosaurs would make you cry. And it's not even going to make a difference. This will cover what, a 100 grand? Wow, great plan, now you're only about $500 million short of your goal! And I have to worry about a paycut...

But I digress. The one person in my unit accepting this generous offer will be known as Leatherface. She also has been lovingly nicknamed "Gator" by me due to her rough exterior and actual resemblance to an actual alligator. She was introduced to me on my second day or so, when she threatened another co-worker who was in her second week with "taking her into the backroom" and teaching her something. I felt immediately welcomed into this warm environment. Her punishment for such an egregious act? Suspension without pay? Termination? Sat on by the 700 pound man with the mailorder wife? D, none of the above. Her desk was moved, to, get this, the other side of the victim's partition. It's equivalent to a mugger moving in next door to a jogger he just robbed. Because you see, at this wonderful place, they don't cut the cancer out, they just put a band-aid over it and hope it heals.

At least she is leaving. She tended to play by her own rules, obviously. Wore whatever she wanted (a favorite piece of clothing was a Black Dog t-shirt, something I referenced before). Sawe her on numerous times yell at her superiors, and them backing down like a battered wife who just can't put up a fight anymore. What I'll remember most about her is her weirdness, as if that wasn't apparent already. For one, she never ate any sweets. We used to have these ridiculous parties for people's birthdays within the group, which consisted of mostly awkward banter and cake, and she never partook in anything, always coming up with some strange excuse as to why she couldn't eat it, like her teeth would fall out or that she was full. It was really annoying; I paid like $10 minimum for these annoying little get togethers, and the least this woman could do was take something back to her desk. Throw it out, give it to someone, do whatever, just at least do something. Going out in public for lunches was even worse. She wasn't the only perpetrator here, but she was definitely one of the biggest offenders. It got to the point I was highly embarrassed to be around this woman. The funny thing was, as much as she was basically, a bitch to everyone, she loved me. Always gave me supplies (her one ounce of responsibility--in charge of supplies and creating a purchase order distribution list) and also notarized any document I needed, no matter how many copies and how fast a timeframe I needed them in. I don't even talk to her anymore, only if I have to. Safe to say, I won't be lining up for her retirement party anytime soon...mostly because she won't be having one. That's another thing, she hated attention. Even telling her happy birthday elicited her claws and bared teeth. It was like she wanted to keep some shroud of mystery around her, and didn't want to let anyone in. All I knew was that she lived in Harlem and worked part-time at Carnegie Hall, ripping tickets (as her resume on the network server stated). Maybe the retiring will enable her to turn that into a full time gig. Maybe even get her to Broadway one day. I assume that's the major leagues of ticket ripping.

The best part of all of this? Her "retirement flyer," a disturbing memo created by some simpleton within the unit showcasing that after "X amount of years and doing nothing else in their spare time, so and so is retiring! To do more of the same!" Most flyers looked like a lot of time was put into them. This one was arguably the best of all of them: Leatherface wearing said Black Dog t-shirt, glasses perched on bridge of nose, NOTARIZING. Yes, I said notarizing. She refused to have any acknowledgment of this (even turned down a free lunch), so all it said was that maybe we'd "see her in the Vineyard" one day. Out of all of the posters I've seen, and I've seen at least 50, this was definitely the worst offender of all time. I bet I know who put it together too. I can't believe she even collected a paycheck there. Oh wait, yes I do. Civil service=can't be terminated. God I love this job.

The other retirees are just as undesirable, or as one employee said, "washed up" (though he actually was referring to himself). Probably the most eccentric, after the 'Face of course, is a man who at 62 almost had to be forced to retire. A nice man, for all intents and purposes, very helpful, always there to lend a helping hand. But since being cheap is a prerequisite here, he takes it to another level. He lives fairly far into the annals of Long Island (at least that's what I visualize this vast stretch of NY landfill looking like, an area that gives New Jersey and Staten Island a solid triple threat in douchebaggery) and could easily get into work in under two hours by taking the LIRR to the MTA trains. But no, that would be too easy, friends. So let me sum up his sojourn from one nightmare into another, via bullet points:

• He leaves his house roughly before 6am, and walks about a mile to two miles to the bus station.
  
• From there, he hops on said bus and then rides that for about an hour to a MTA train heading into Manhattan.
• From that MTA train he must transfer to another train to get downtown to work.

And why is this? For the sheer fun of commuting? He has a fascination with long trips? Nope, he is just too cheap to pay for it. He doesn't pay for a Metrocard, so why pay for the LIRR, even though you make over $100,000 a year? And when you retire, you'll walk away with 80% of your salary, not counting social security. There's a real thin line between cheap and excessively cheap, and he toes that everyday. But if you knew the man, you'd realize this is just the tip of the iceberg with his eccentricities. So where do I begin? From the eating of scallion and onion sandwiches daily (and the reusing/recycling of all the tin foil used to wrap said sandwich), to the dissheveled appearance (I lost count of the number of days I saw him with ink stains in his pocket protectored front shirt pocket) and the fact that I heard his wife has "wild" eyes and appears to treat him worse than the pet dog they own, I guess I'm not surprised he leaves the house that early, only to go from one disaster to another. It's kind of tragic, but after awhile, you stop feeling sorry for people that put themselves in situations like that. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that he also used to carry about two large bags full of newspapers and who knows what else into work everyday. I once gave him two bags to keep these articles in since he was only using grocery bags, and he acted like I just gave him the Holy Grail, he was so appreciative. His gifts to his workers tops that; as he once gave the same girl who was verbally assaulted by Leatherface adorable salt and pepper shakers that were potentially given to him as a free gift for ordering something, potentially. Can't say the thought wasn't there. He is incredibly whipped by his wife, as is most men there. If you weren't single, you were in a relationship with no kids, or unhappily married to someone worse than you. The men there made you never want to tie the knot, they were so miserable. God knows what their wives must look like (shudders). They will never divorce or stand up for themselves, because that would require moxie or strength, common characteristics severely lacking in most people there.

The other ones are pretty odd too, if you couldn't guess already. There's the Haitian with the odd knot of hair on his head who is a "sex therapist" who released multiple r &b love song albums and wears the same two thin shirts every week, the Italian immigrant who's been here for 30 years and still had to have someone else record his voicemail messages because he can't speak clearly, the hippie burnout who can't remember what he did the week before and makes Ebeneezer Scrooge look like King Midas, and of course, the old hearing impaired moron who practices his golf swing in his cubicle and in empty stairwells. What an all star cast of people who worked at one place for far too long since they lacked any discernible skill or intelligence and will now enjoy their remaining golden years not doing anything before subsequently dying. As morose as that sounds, that's really what everyone there does. Work, retire, die. Nothing in between.

I'm not going to this party though. I thought long and hard about it and decided I'm done with participating in these ridiculous get togethers that make The Office's parties look like Studio 54. They are awkward affairs, mainly consisting of people with limited to no social skills interacting in a small room for an hour trying to think up things to talk about that aren't work related. I guess it's similar to putting monkeys in a room together and seeing if they'll play with each other. Usually the food is bad, the company is worse, and it's a huge waste of time. But I didn't even get to the fact that they always want money for these dreadful affairs. And a lot of it. If I had to count up the amount of hard earned cash (and, as you have read, it's very hard earned) I've had to give for retirement parties, birthday parties, lunches, colonoscopies (not literally, but I wouldn't put it past this place) it'd definitely be over $100 for everything. And that doesn't count the donations I've had to give for someone who had a child, had surgery (since everyone there is broken and not physically or mentally healthy) or just needed money. I used to donate it, no problem, figuring it was for a good cause. But after seeing the $30 price tag on this retiree lunch, I said "Enough was enough" and put my foot down. I have my own money problems, these people are getting a lot of money, what is wrong with this picture? My boss, after hearing I wasn't going to the last full scale party for the Vice President of the company, told me it was "politically" smart for me to attend these, regardless of money. As if I want to impress these people or need their help in the future. I want to be able to leave there and not be remembered. I got out of those parties, I opted out of the ludicrous Wednesday bagel club I was a part of ($1.00 a week that went up to $1.25 and then $1.50 due to a "cream cheese" fee) and just recently said goodbye to the lotto racket that I had been a member of for probably close to a year. It may only be a dollar as everyone told me, but one to two dollars every 2-3 days adds up very fast. And I'm pretty certain we will never win. I'd be willing to put my entire life on it. So you read it here first: if they win when I got out, I'll jump off my roof. It wouldn't even be that much since there's like 30 people in it. Certainly not enough to leave that place with and go on a two month trip to Europe, that's for sure. If people are going to start paying for me to attend these functions, so be it. But until that happens, I'm done. At the end of every month I should add up the amount I saved and buy something...maybe a beer. All I know is I won $50 on a scratch off, so boo yah! More than any of those people ever win or will win! FTW!

The guy organizing it is also a big reason I'm opting out of this shindig. A tall oafish fellow with horribly red eyes due to the 3-5 cats he owns (apparently his wife took them in and he just accepted it, like the good drone that he is) and a weight problem, he always appeared to be on the verge of tears everytime you saw him. He also had a very creepy and disturbing laugh, when coupled with his strange moustache, made him appear to be a pedophile or a peeping tom. He also had an odd fascination with me, like most men there do (for another time). He used to ask me about Korea since I visited there (which was the talk of the floor for a week or so, since no one else ever did anything of interest), asking if I was from North Korea (c'mon, who asks this anymore...it's like asking a Russian if they are from the U.S.S.R.) and if my family worked on the railroads (actually said to someone else and relayed to me). He had wanted me and a few of my co-workers to go up to the cabin he owned in upstate NY to hang out a few summers ago. Initially I was for it, thinking it'd be a real "man's weekend" where we'd do nothing but eat, drink, laugh, and be merry. However, after giving it more thought, I remembered who I was going with (a brain dead 30 year old idiot who made you repeat yourself every two seconds, and a guy who has committed petty arson) and who we would be visiting (the aforementioned "oaf"), I quickly realized this would be a weekend I'd surely never forget, for all the wrong reasons. I had dreams of me being sacrificed to the natives, as the oaf was a devout Catholic and adorned his cubicle with images of the Virgin Mary and various crosses everywhere, effectively spitting on the whole separation of church and state thing. Or being forced to drink kegs of beer to compete with the arsonist, and then having to haul the 250+ lb. moustached weirdo back to his cabin. It had too much of a Jason Voorhies element to it, so I kept postponing the trip farther and farther until the fat guy forgot about it. Couple in the fact Tubby also had some type of hearing problem, and that he had the social capabilities of Robert Deniro in "Awakenings", and I knew not going was one of the smartest decisions I could ever make. If his party planning was going to be anything like what I expected in the woods (just writing that makes me wonder why I ever thought going would be fun in the first place), then oh boy. I'd be in for quite a show. It's like the $10 they want me to give for Leatherface's gift, a stupid photo album I have to write in. What am I possibly supposed to write to this creature? "Thanks for notarizing my documents, even though you were required to. Also, thanks for not attacking me." Not only is it a dumb gift, the process leading up to it was even worse, with the e-mails going back and forth of what to get, the nebbish woman in my unit complaining we weren't buying a cake, and me retorting back that 'Face doesn't even eat cake, to finally deciding on this album (not me, of course). I'm not giving money for this, and I hope someone questions me about it. I'm done with the whole "happy go lucky" part of me there, they've sucked any happiness or joy out of me. Numerous people always ask me now if I'm ok since I just keep my head down and don't talk to anyone anymore, and honestly, I've never been happier. They're not getting the nice guy anymore, they're getting the angry, deflated one. But as soon as I leave, I do transform back into happy guy (not to be confused with "Happy Dude," the friendly lotto store around the corner who always greets you with a smile after you give him $100 of your earnings for non winning lotto tickets). There may be a lot I'm happy about, but it's certainly not work. Ugh, it's already Sunday afternoon and I haven't done anything and have some awful training session tomorrow that will be worse than a day of work. At least I'll get some good pizza after.

A Day in the Life...

So I figured I'd show everyone (or more like the few, the proud...nope, just the few), a day in the life of what I do, everyday. It's a struggle, yes, but somehow, like Martin Luther King, Jr. said, "We shall overcome." Totally in poor taste, but you get the idea.

7:15 a.m. Like Kesha, I wake up in the morning feeling like P. Diddy. No, scratch that. I usually wake up thinking "Goddamnit, Frank Sinatra (alarm clock sound) is up already!" I don't sleep well in general, dating back to my glory years of college (it was probably all those late night pigouts and wild parties...nope, just the pigouts), so for me to get like 5 hours of quality Z's is a huge win. Lately, however, the bum that lives in the basement of my building (long story, but I think he owes my landlord money or has dirt on him) has not been around blasting his loud obnoxious radio or playing "Muzzy" on some mystery computer, so I am sleeping a lot better (his "room", which is no bigger than a large bathroom, is directly beneath my bedroom, so I hear this crap filtering through the baseboard). I grab my glasses and iPod touch (because my stupid 30 gb video broke...don't scroll too fast past songs if they've only played for two seconds; I learned that the hard way) and hit the living room, which is about 5 feet from my bed. I usually also think to myself, "Wow, another day and I still have to go into that shithole called work. Damn." Very rare I'm in a good mood or not tired during the week. Maybe after I eat chicken wings or something. But, it sure as hell beats 5am wakeups when I lived in the Garden State (I also recently changed my workshift to a more workable 8:30, giving me an additional hour on top of when I was waking up. This was one of the best work related decisions I've ever made since realizing I could get onto Gchat at work by doing some clever HTML rejiggering.

7:20 a.m. Grab some breakfast, whether it's cereal or English muffins, and sit down on the couch to watch breaking news...in sports. "Sports Center" is always on in the morning, because I want to see Siena vs. Fairfield highlights in NCAA basketball as much as the next guy. I usually check Facebook and my depleted bank account statement on the Touch only. Maybe the Times (because cool New Yorkers call the NY Times just the "Times" and people know what that is) on a good day. I know that I have roughly 25 minutes until it's game time.

7:30 a.m. Breakfast is over (always consumed unless I went to bed drunk or am eating a bagel purchased through this Coffee Club at work when I get in; though it's a huge rip-off and I really should get out, but I fear that the religious zealot who runs it will stab me with a wooden cross). I retreat to my bedroom to change into the work attire. All my pants are too small unfortunately, because I made the rookie mistake of washing them frequently since they were too big, then tailoring them when it was too late, leaving me with short almost capri-like pants. Moral of the story: get thee to a tailor first, everytime. It's worth the effort. Then it's off to gel the hair (another five minute process), brush the teeth, and get ready to catch the trusty 7:58 bus to the subway, to limit my entire walking distance. Lazy? You bet. Headphones in (usually something upbeat, like Lady Gaga or that Chris Brown song from "The Office") and I'm on.

7:58 a.m. I see the same people on the bus everyday. The overbearing Jamaican mother who choreographs her daughter and son's every move, the mother with two young kids who lights up a cigarette moments before the bus is leaving, an attractive younger woman I've never had the courage to strike a conversation with, and the loud kids who occasionally don't pay their fare, meriting a visit from the large African-American bus driver, who said "I don't care if you don't pay, but you have to show me something," with menace in his eyes. No one ever fare evaded again. This ride only takes roughly 4 minutes, and the bus driver always drops us off right outside the subway, even though it's before the scheduled stop. He is the man.

8:06 a.m. I always miss the train that leaves a few minutes before that, but it's never a big deal. That one is always more crowded anyway. As I descend down the stairs, and have to juke and jive like an NFL running back to escape the crowd that is rushing up past me, and avoiding the Bible thumpers that stand near the entrance holding up some ludicrous flyer saying "Jesus Saves" or some nonsense like that, I finally catch the train. Before I get on (and I know exactly where I have to stand so it exits me right outside the turnstile...every commuter knows things like this), I always do a quick sweep to make sure there's no "subway preachers" getting on or already boarded. If you have never had the pleasure of being around these glorious people, consider yourself lucky. These are typically West Indian or Haitian men and women that speak and sing about Jesus for your entire subway ride. They don't shut up, even after they are told to (as I made that mistake once, leading to an unintentional screaming fight between two other commuters while the preacher kept on singing). In fact, any people that make any type of noise on a train is pretty obnoxious, whether it's playing their music at an unreasonable level (if I can sing along to Rick Ross in your headphones, you're playing it WAY too loud), talking to someone else as if they're on the other side of the car, or the always lovable homeless outreach workers, who my friend once boldly told, "No one wants to hear this that early in the morning; we're all on to you." So after I internalize all of this, and see the coast is clear, I hop on, and off we go.

The ride is pretty uneventful usually, aside from the aforementioned distractions. I usually have to stand and always see someone I work with on this. I tend to keep my head down or lately, turning my entire back to someone. I have to see these people everyday for seven hours, no need to see them this early in the morning. Eventually, I get out, make another spin move to get away from the Metro/AM NY newspaper guys (used to always get one, but now I just read blogs, and I get all the information I need...also, when I worked at 7:30 am, no one was there, so I could enjoy the silence. At 8:30, since people here work ridiculous hours, there's already an entire office there). I use the side entrance, never the revolving doors, since they weigh about 10 metric tons to push through. Seriously, why is everything about this place heavy handed and tough? Every other door I've ever rotated through is easy to maneuver. These doors--even this guy would have a hard time pushing through them.

I get through that first obstacle, and then have to swipe through another checkpoint to get to the elevators. This place is like Fort Knox; my mother and sister came into the city once to visit (bad idea--I actually exposed them to the people upstairs...I think they still haven't fully recovered from whatever airborne disease they encountered up there) and it took over 5 minutes to get them a pass just to come upstairs to see exactly what I did (they still don't know, by the way). They had to show their driver's licenses, social security cards, voter registration, submit a blood sample. You get the idea. It's a joke. It's not like this place is that important. The security guards are pretty incompetent too. They always make you go back and swipe through the checkpoint, even if they have seen you for the last three years and you swiped a card through. After awhile, I got sick of it, and if it didn't swipe, I just kept walking through, as they called out "Sir" to no response. They can't leave their post, so I just kept going. I agree I could have been the Unibomber or something, and they'd have been powerless to stop it. Once I'm through the sentries at the gate, I keep my head down and try to avoid further human contact as I ascend to the 19th floor, or as I call it, "the point of no return." I always have to deal with some woman blasting Rihanna/Michael Jackson also. I get it, "Rude Boy" and "Thriller" are great songs, but I really don't want to hear them too. I have them on my iPod already. Turn the music off in the elevator or turn it down, simple as that. Hard to believe simple common sense concepts like this are so difficult for these people to grasp.

8:20 a.m.-12:15 p.m. So this is the bulk of my day. Pushing paper, faxing paper, printing paper...my God, a small village of paper could have been created with all the trees I'm killing. I tend to zone out for most of the day, doing what I have to do, nothing more, mostly less. I do a lot to keep myself occupied for this crucial part of the workday: Gchat, blog trolling (recently been converted to the whole "foodie" thing; not one myself, but enjoy other people enjoy cheap cart food as much as I do), bank statement checking (never good). I can't get on Facebook, but they don't block Gothamist? I have to constantly be on my toes during this shift, from prying eyes of the guy who sits behind me (who I'm convinced is out to destroy me, and that's all I'll say for fear of retribution) to my boss, who I can see out of the corner of my eye coming down the hall. She is short to the ground so I can hear when she is approaching, causing me to either close out of what I'm doing, or perfecting the miniature pop-up window in the lower corner of my desk. I feel people do a lot worse than I do, it's not like I'm searching for beastiality or something, I'm just trying to pass the time. I tend to talk with my friends who also seem to be killing time as well on Gchat. I tend to talk to another co-worker frequently in this short timeframe, mostly to keep our own sanity, but also to just joke about the absurdity of all of it. We also frequently discuss another co-worker and if she is wearing jeans (which technically you're not supposed to do in a business casual environment, but at this place, who's really counting?) or even at work. Most of the time it's either or. We also discuss what the other is having for lunch, as that will be the toughest decision we make all day, if we didn't bring it initially.

12:15 p.m.-1:40 p.m. Best part of my day. I tend to wait until this time, as I usually eat before taking my mandatory one hour break. It's cheating the system, yes, but if people can yell at their boss and wear Black Dog t-shirts (actually the same person), then I can take that extra half hour. Like mentioned earlier, I always feel as if the guy who sits behind me, who is higher in rank than me, is always spying on me and reporting back to my boss, I have basically ceased caring, since I know you must commit short of a murder to face any disciplinary action there.

Anyway, I tend to eat microwavable food, so I go into the kitchen around this time, when I know the initial 12:00 rush has subsided. Usually I am in there alone, but occasionally I run into this girl who I kind of had a thing for, which always makes for interesting conversation. I tend to not like to give some of these women any attention anymore, as they are used to getting it all the time from the hound dogs and pathetic creatures around them. I used to be one of these people, literally drooling at the sight of them. This went on for awhile until I realized a)they weren't that hot, and b)I was never going to get anywhere with them. It also didn't help that most of them, since they worked where I did, were damaged in some way, either physically or mentally. For instance, a girl that actually revealed her same sex tendencies to me in a moment of weakness or drunken truth telling, asked where I lived. It turned out we didn't live that far from each other, as she was moving near me. After talking briefly, she then lovingly said, "Well, we'll probably see each other on the train or something." And there went that relationship. Really, do you think I'm going to go to your apartment and attack you? Really ridiculous. And from that point on, I stopped interacting with not just women, but most people there in general. I really only socialize with about four people there, and only two regularly. It's that bad. You'd think that the people you worked with would be fun, or at least people you could hang out with after work, as you see them more than your own real friends. Not here. People were abused or something in their past lives and now are more guarded than Fort Knox. So much for that. Anyhoo, back to the girl in the kitchen. For awhile I was just saying hi, but lately I have engaged her briefly. She actually initiates with me. I don't know, maybe to reaffirm her hotness. I'm not falling for that anymore. I have enough things going on in my life, the last thing I need is some tease. I don't have time to be "that guy" anymore, counting my lucky stars and writing in my diary that the hot girl talked to me. Maybe last year, but not anymore. We usually talk for a few minutes, then we go our separate ways. I heat up what I need to heat up (usually some chicken dish or something similarly easy to cook; I'm no Mario Batali, at least not yet). It tends to be a long line around this time, but if you time everything correctly, you can get in and out like a cat burglar relatively fast. I take this back to my desk and then troll more blogs, while I eat until I get my rec time. I then wait for the other guy (of 2) I talk to, and we go outside, usually to get a small walk in (gotta get those calories off somehow) or stare at the business women outside. Usually it's the latter. What else is there to do? Sit at my desk? I don't think so. We tend to play the "Wow, I'd do her" or "Ew, that girl is gross, she has huge calves" game. We use the Jeans Girl (and her massive calves) as our starting point for any unattractive woman. Usually Calves is still worst. Yes, I'm an asshole. You try working there for seven hours and then tell me you don't share my general malaise.

1:30-4:30 p.m. The last leg of the day. Also the hardest part. It's only three hours, but they sure go slow. This portion of our televised program consists of me trying everything in my power not to dose off after I consumed that huge lunch. The guy behind me talks to his wife in some dead sea language for hours around this time. Very annoying. I may talk on the phone but I keep my voice down and leave the conversation typically under 5 minutes. This guy tells the entire phonebook to his wife or whoever at least five times a day! Of course I can never say anything to him, since people live and breath by their titles there, but if I had the chance...it'd be messy. He was a cool guy I thought at the beginning, but once he got promoted, that layer of coolness devolved into a pile of crap. I really despise him now, more than maybe anyone I've ever met (aside from the vagrant living in my building's basement...for another time). He thinks he is the smartest person ever because he got promoted. Give me a break, having some title here is being like the smartest retard. Not really something to be proud of. And I can say that honestly, coming from an "analyst" as my job title in Outlook says.

My boss tends to kick it into overdrive around this time, consistently bothering me like a shrew or something. I understand things need to get done, but she takes it a little too serious. It's not as if she will rise any higher. That place makes the PGA look like the ACLU. You will only be promoted if you kiss a lot of ass and are a man. Other than that, you will do a lot of work to get ahead, get no credit, and be made fun of constantly. Pretty sad, but if you are going to pretend this is some high pressure position, you tend to deserve it. I can deflect that annoyance pretty well at this point. I haven't been stressed or felt stressed in years there. I really stopped caring a long time ago. I always tell people if you let this place get you down or depress you, you are caring too much. You honestly think if this thing doesn't get done you will get fired, or people will die? Hardly! I know that half of the people there sit on projects until the last minute (me occasionally too). I know how it works there. Kind of like a grizzled veteran, I am always calm and collected. I'm not the best, but I know enough to get by. And for there, that's just fine. I don't know what I'll do when I move on, because when I'm asked to do work, I'll probably spontaneously combust. I start packing my things up around 4:25, and always punch out at 4:30 on the dot. They take enough from me.

From here, it's usually going to the local watering hole a subway stop away (continue to feed my addiction to buffalo wings), or the one with the women serving you in bikinis, or visiting a fine gentleman's establishment (thank god for daddy issues!) or working out at the fitness center in the local college. While it's smelly and full of people who don't speak English, it's cheap, and that is the name of the game. Which tends to apply to everything I do after work, but I guess it's better than being at work, right?

7:30 p.m. to 12:00 a.m. The end of another day. This is where cooking and preparing lunch comes in, though I haven't been doing much of either lately. I have such a small window of free time during the week, that I don't like spending it doing this type of work. Lately I've been getting into video games, and wanting to do stuff like this. Work really gets in the way of this, unfortunately. I always go to bed too late since I can with the 8:30 start time, so I'm constantly trying to fit everything in before that. Job hunting has taken the back burner lately, because I always think, "it can't get much worse." Than a man shits himself, or a guy asks you to feel his biceps, or a woman humps you in an elevator, and you stand corrected, every time. Boy, I need to get a hobby.

The Return...again?

I realized in looking back at previous posts, I began to shy away from what this blog was all about-- mainly, a chance for me to rant and rave about my current occupational situation. I started to dive into relationships and my personal life, and while that's great, I don't know if that is what I intended to discuss when I started this blog. This was my chance to explain to the few that read this (I hope that goes up, I'd love for this to become the Huffington Post of angry cubicle worker blogs, but I'm not sure if I'm there yet) how dreadful work had become, and my attempts, albeit futile, at keeping my head above water. I think it's time to get back to that, and keep the focus on work, not my life. Sure, parts of it will inevitably dissipate into this space (as much as I hate to say it, my life is tied to what I do for a living), but I'll try to keep them separate. I also saw how lazy I'd become with my postings; just wanting to get something in there so I could say I wrote something. And if I'm going to half-ass it, then I might as well shut this thing down. So, feeling reenergized, I decided to devote more of my time to this (it's better than the alternative: watching The Office reruns and definitely not YouTubing American Idol videos). So, where to begin after this long layoff?

Well, I guess I'll start with saying I'm still there, at Initech/Dunder Mifflin on acid (and not in the good way like at Woodstock). I've been searching desperately like Tyrone Biggums (look for that on YouTube; even though Dave went nuts, I'll always have his two seasons of television perfection) for a crack rock. I've been on headhunting sites, job postings, job searches, metal detectors on the beach, you name it. There just doesn't appear to be a high demand for a two years out of college procurement specialist in the editorial field, for some reason. I've considered just quitting and living the oh-so-desirable lifestyle of an "artist" (I really am not a fan of this; I know people like that. They almost look down on you for wanting to be successful or wealthy..so shoot me) or in other words, an unemployed turd. While not working there I would equate with the perfect orgasm or cashing in coins at the Penny Arcade (shameless plug for TD Bank, a great bank that I switched to before I moved. Best decision I've made in a long time, almost as good as the chicken parm/spaghetti dinner I just ordered. My old bank, which I will namedrop--Valley National Bank--started charging fees for typing in your pin for a debit purchase. I got out right after, and never looked back), I know it's not feasible nor smart. I need to have something lined up before jumping into something else. Moving back home is not an option, and taking a paycut is not something I'm overly enthusiastic about either. To be honest, I'm not even sure what I want to do anymore. I know I want to be a magazine journalist for something like GQ (I've become like a male fashionista lately, not sure if that's good or not), but I don't want to do the work to get there...is that bad? I also want to make at least or a little under what I'm making now, but in that line of work, that's not really how it works. It's a very big "pay your dues" type of industry, so I would have to get used to eating bologna on hand sandwiches (thank you, Scott Ian of Anthrax, from Metallica's Behind the Music for that) or living with twelve roommates for awhile. I don't know, maybe it's selfish, but I really just want to have so much and do so little for it. I think it's that workplace atmosphere that's infecting me like H1N1 (which I wish I got; I'd get out of work for like a month...or die, so win-win, I guess), where I have no desire to do anything. I fear when I do find another job (because I will, believe me), when my new boss asks me to do work or finish something on deadline, I'll look at him and then self-destruct.

For now, short-term, I'd be ok with working somewhere small in the editorial field, like working on a small magazine or something. Do that for a few years, build up my experience/resume, and then move on to something better. At this point, I'm not even sure I remember how to be a journalist. I know there's such things as "libel" and "slander" as well as some type of style referred to as "AP," but I can't be sure it's any different than the deep dish "Chicago" version. I really need to get back to writing, in any form. A few months ago, someone suggested going to a cafe and write. I scoffed at the idea and twirled my invisible moustache, thinking I would never be "that guy" that goes to a coffee shop to hang out. But it really isn't a terrible idea; it'd expose me to new people (since my romantic life is like the Tennessee Titans this year), new environments, and get me away from all the distractions in my apartment (Facebook, porn, etc). I've added it to my very lengthy to-do list for the remainder of this year. In other news, where did 2009 go? For another time, I suppose.

Back to the task at hand. I'll be focusing in on one aspect of work every post, which I hope will become more daily now. This week: The Bathroom.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ah, the john. The can. Or as my friend and I have been referring to it, "the urination room" (in reference to the time we came back from the neighborhood strip club and had to use the bathroom, and this was the closest one we could find. As we were about to enter, the night janitor said that we couldn't use said lavatory, only if it was for "urination only." I told him all I was doing was #1--I literally said that--and he angrily let me in). The only place in your work where you have complete privacy, or at least the closest you will get besides your lunch hour (and if your boss doesn't call you when you're on it--as happens to me). It's the most relaxing place this side of Sandals. You are alone with your thoughts, your dreams, thinking of why the toilet seat covers never seem to rip evenly out of the dispenser. But who knew this humble abode could possess so much intrigue and wonder, as well as pure disgust (it is a bathroom, after all).

The people on my floor wouldn't be considered "classy" by any means. These are the same people who soil their pants in public or steal any type of food left out throughout the floor, whether it's a piece of candy or a half eaten slice of bread. So I guess I shouldn't be surprised at their bathroom etiquette. Now, I'm no saint, but when I'm at a place of business, or rather, my job, I try to express a certain level of decorum. And that even goes for the bathroom. However, like every other memo in that place, the one on how to act in the W.C. never made it to my male colleagues.

First off, I hate when someone sits in the stall next to me, even when there's another two open down. That's why I stopped using my floor's bathroom and went to the floor underneath (hence the line "I'm going to 18" when referring to not urinating). There is much more space and you don't feel like you're in a cattle car off to the slaughterhouse. I always think another Larry Craig incident will happen when I'm that close to someone. It doesn't help when that person next to you sounds like they took a hand grenade, pulled the pin, and chucked ten more of them into the toilet. This especially holds true with this one angry short Indian man I work with. He is like Bill O'Reilly and Rush Limbaugh in the body of an Oompa Loompa; misogynistic, rude, obnoxious. He also has a very Hitler-esque moustache. All this, combined with the fact that he appears to be dropping hundreds of anchors into the water, and you have a recipe for disaster.

The urinals are no better. I always get the sense I'm being watched; like someone's eyes are always wandering. I almost want to ask them if they want me to sign it or something, it's that uncomfortable. There was also a guy who used to touch you after he went. I don't know how many rules from the Geneva Convention that violates, but it is enough to make you want to hold it all day. I also hate when people talk to you when you're trying to go; it's like cutting you off when you're in cruise control on the highway. I find myself unable to continue once this annoying distraction occurs. And how people go causes me to shudder. While most men just unzip, let it out and go, others seem to need to resort back to their grade school days: unzip the pants, yes, but also unbuttoning, and dropping their pants like they were at half-mast. Aren't we a little beyond that? And people that don't steady it with one to two hands? Unacceptable. It's not a garden hose; use a little more restraint. I know way too many male co-workers undergarments of choice than I care to admit to. They also seem to hold it all in for hours and then let it out and a loud booming rush similar to what pouring a bucket down a well must sound like.

The sinks also leave much to be desired. From the people who don't wash their hands to the ones that need to push the faucet head for an hour, causing water to soak everything in sight like the Blob, it makes for a very bad experience each and everytime. I'm waiting for someone to drop a load with the door open, or just ask me to wipe them. Seriously.

Due to all of that, I tend to make my bathroom breaks infrequent and short. I touch nothing in there, and have resorted to using my feet to kick doors open like Chuck Norris. But what disturbs me more is the fact that the women's bathroom is even worst, I hear (obviously). I guess I just picture all women to not go to the bathroom besides #1, so the thought of them doing much much more causes me despair. But hey, when you gotta go, you gotta go.

Well, that's it for me. I am back, as one lowly co-worker said once, after being off on a paid sick leave for six months, even though no one asked him. Like I said, I want to make this more frequent now. On deck? "Workplace attire." Just to give a small hint: people dress in jeans on Friday, and during inclement weather, even though no memo or authorization was ever given for that. One co-worker actually wears the popular women's boot UGG as her official shoe. I really can't make this up. And you won't believe it either.

"What a Place"

I had this really long post I was working on, that was going to give the cyber world a very long summary of my exploits over the past few months: going to Korea (briefly; there's another whole blog about that), moving out, etc. But after a particularly vexing day at the hellhole that is my occupation, I feel I had to vent. I apologize this has no structure, no order...but I guess it kind of fits the content, right?

To sum it up: My friend (one of the few normal people there) told me of how his boss needed to have a screensaver set up with a password. My friend needed his boss's password. No, it wasn't "1,2,3,4" like Michael Scott's, but it summed it up perfectly: "----sucks1." I won't reveal the first four letters, for fear that someone else doesn't share my less than sunny disposition about my employer, but I'll just say the first word is where I work. That's the problem; there are literally thousands of people like him: hate their job, their life, hate everything. Is it the job? I'm sure that plays into it. But I know it has to do a lot with the people that work there. I've often times said that a monkey could do this job, but that actually does a disservice to the monkeys, animals that can actually be trained to do work and function as humans. The organisms I work with are unteachable. Not that they're stubborn to learning (they are), but they are genetically disposed to reject all learning. It doesn't process in their brain. Instead, you get these half-retarded creatures roaming around, like they just got bad lobotomies. You know how I know work sucks? When everyone around you tells you to "get out." When people who literally pick up things from the printer and get food out of a refrigerator are on the payroll. This is the safest job on the planet, because if a guy can shit himself in front of everyone and still collect a hefty paycheck, then I can be President of the company. True story.

This place, if you hadn't gathered it from the many posts written, sucks. How else can I sum it up any more succinctly? It is this festering piece of shit dump that spreads its evil around and eats up everything in its path, like a tornado. No one is safe. Everyone there is pathetic, depressing, and strange. I don't know if it's the work (yeah, it's the work), but why does it make everyone so guarded and closed off? Seriously, go onto my floor, and ask anyone what they did over the weekend. "I went to Central Park and had a picnic." "I saw an amazing concert." "I went to the beach." Any of those answers would be acceptable, and even enjoyable...if these people were normal. Here's the real answers you get: "Nothing." "Sat in my house." "I wasn't here." Everyone there, in a past life or when they were younger, must have been severely emotionally and/or physically scarred, because getting any type of information out of anyone is like trying to pull a sandwich out of a fat man's mouth (and there are two of the fattest, most disgusting people I've ever seen that work here. One weighs at least "five hundred pounds" according to someone else there, though it's probably closer to 350. He apparently used to bring in loaves of Italian bread and a pound of bologna and just plowed through the combo. Everyday. But he is actually more tolerable than the other one, who is not as fat but 100 times more disgusting and pathetic. If it wasn't bad enough he bought a wife and her child from the Philippines, then the not bathing and dropping his pants at the urinal like a 5 year old would take the cake. Seriously? He basically needs a diaper or suspenders. And he, like the previously described hippo, make collectively over $100,000 a year. My employer throws money around like Pacman Jones in Las Vegas).

Another great example is when some girl came up to me and asked if I just moved. We got into a short conversation about how she moved to my neighborhood. "She's cool," I thought. "Maybe we can hang out, it's always good to have some more friends to hang out with in a new environment." But then, after saying that maybe we could hang out, she said what I should have expected her to say: she immediately threw her guard up like the Berlin Wall being reconstructed, and said, "Yeah...maybe we'll see each other on the train or something." Wow! Really? Do you think I'm going to come to your apartment and rape you? That sounds extreme, but c'mon!

Maybe everyone around are CIA agents with double lives. They're mild-mannered at work, but once they punch that clock, they go into killing mode. That's the only way I can explain keeping everything so close to the vest. Or maybe they're just weird with no forseeable social lives. Do these people think I'm going to broadcast what they do to a blog or something? (Hmm...)

Another girl lives in one of the sickest neighborhoods in Brooklyn; an area everyone not there would drool over. What does she do in her free time, you ask? Just sitting around in her apartment, talking walks with a friend, or shopping. Yes, riveting. She also spends about $5 a day to feed her Starbucks addiction. Did you get the newsflash that they sell this at supermarkets now? And you're not too thin yourself, I would suggest cutting back on the calories and reaching for a water. How about the girl who appears to just take fitness classes? Or the guy who sits in his house all day? I could go on forever, but I think I've made my point.

And these are young people! Under 30 in a lot of cases. Whereas for most people, work is just what takes up your time when you're not doing something fun, these people saw work as everything. And that is the saddest thing of all. Because this job isn't worth it to get stressed out or angry. While people may go around and act as if we're saving the planet, we're not doing anything worth a damn. In the grand scheme of things, our job means nothing, like a lot of other jobs. This false sense of entitlement people have sickens me.

Slowly and slowly this job feels like it's consuming me. Everyday, I talk to people who share the same malaise I do, and whenever we talk about work, all we can say is, "What a place." "Or people suck." For every decent (there's never a "good" day here) day, where I think to myself, "I could work here a little while longer before moving on," ten things come up and make me realize why I have been actively job searching after about 2 months of working there. People just get so complacent, and that's when you settle, and that's not what I want to do. I don't want to start falling into a routine there. So maybe it's good to keep running into these things and being miserable. It'll make me want to get out that much more. At least I get out there and try to live my life. Granted, I'm not popping bottles every night, or bedding beautiful women daily, but I do go out and do things. I don't go home and wait for work to start the next day, which sadly, so many of my co-workers do. You have to distance yourself from work and life. That sounds easy, but so many people just can't do it. And it's the worse when people talk about work outside, or ask you what you do. I have told I don't know how many people what I think I do, and they look at me like I just spoke in a foreign language to them. Trust me, how do you think I feel telling it? I've been there two years and I sometimes get the sense I'm drowning. And not like the quick, ball and chain around your ankle and you sink to the bottom of the ocean. I'm talking about the long, painful, water slowly filling up in your lungs, stranded in the middle of shark-infested water drowning. I'm just hoping for a lifeline soon. I guess the best thing I can say at the end of everything is: "Well, it can't get much worse." But, it is only Tuesday night.