shit, were the walls closing in on him? his eyes darted side to side like those freaking tiny field mice in the middle of the night.

what the....

he strained his eyes, and even rolled backwards in his chair to verify it wasnt his sense of perception screwing with him.

he started from the ceiling and followed the straight lines down to the floor.

shit.

they really were closing in...his cubicle had actually developed some form of a personality...albeit man-eating, but a personality nonetheless.

he laughed out loud as the cheap fabric covering of the cardboard walls proved that "yes! your cubicle CAN be smaller!"

the red swingline stapler on his desk was the only line of defense and thus he used it liberally to pierce his corporate enemy but to no avail.


it wasnt even casual friday, he had worn his best tie
and his cubicle ate him alive...


crap, and he had dishes to wash at home.


dedicated to those who still feel like a college kid at heart, but are stuck in corporate america and are wondering everyday wtf happened to the days of sleeping in and impulsive drunken nights. dedicated to those who sit in traffic and inhale smog. dedicated to those who love office space and swear that work is just like the movie! dedicated to those who dont really give a shit if it's travis from accountings bday, or that its alissas last day cuz you never talked to her before...but are forced to eat cake or go out for drinks. dedicated to those whos heart skips a beat while talking on AIM at work because you swear the boss just walked by. dedicated to those who always figured they would be rich because when they were little everybody said they were really smart, but are now stuck in a job making spreadsheets and ordering the cake for travis from accounting's bday. dedicated to my entire generation; all the people i played in the sandbox with, all the people i loved and hated, all the people i remember and have forgotten, because it is now our turn to face the world which we always heard of and scoffed at. screw you corporate america. youre not eating me alive motherfucker

primitive penguins play poker
while wily wombats wage war/craft

the pen touched lightly on the scrap of paper that he had found beneath his copy of rolling stone. he looked out the window as he sat on his wobbly stool that he had stolen or borrowed from the lady down the hall.

he tapped his pen first on his desk then his lips as he concentrated intently on concocting an image that would inspire him...

he looked back out the window and reflected on the raindrops falling like granules of sugar...too predictable.

down the street was a young couple fighting as the man drenched held an unopened umbrella unaware of the rain...too dramatic

up in the sky were faint traces of a rainbow, the progeny of beams of sunlight struggling to pierce the solemn clouds...too symbolic

he knocked the stool over as he stood and walked over to confirm that he had gotten no ink on his lips...

as his reflection blinked back at him he understood that the writing couldn't come from what was behind the window, but rather should come from whatever was inside of him.


that was the fucking problem,




he was empty





and worn