My sporadic holiday was over. I had officially returned to the enormous G.I. tract I call my cubicle and awaited further digestion.
Being digested by your job is a slow process. For the most part you’re not even aware of slowly being dissolved into tiny bits used as fuel for a larger entity. It’s only when you step out of your weakly acidic (yet compellingly insular) environment that you notice the corrosion.
I’m not saying I have a bad job. I have a good job. But regardless of how good your gig is, you’re still being absorbed to one degree or another; make no mistake about it.
It was quiet at work this morning. But if you listened closely you could hear tiny gurgles.
Hopefully by tomorrow I won’t notice the gurgling.
Julia looks in the mirror and says, “I piddy.”
Piddy the fool who cut off all my hair. . .
By the way, Julia is pooping on her little potty on a fairly regular basis. We’re celebrating each movement as if Alfred Jodl had just signed the unconditional surrender.
No comments:
Post a Comment