Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Nothing but Net

May 24
I'm not gonna be the one to tell you
I feel my face and look up at the ceiling.

I totally remember being of North American descent. But, now that I look up into the mirror on the ceiling of the amphitheater, I realize that I'm East Indian or African. It's hard to tell.

It’s a hospital gurney I’m strapped into and my white boxers are stained yellow. I can hear a crackling voice over the interomm, dead with instruction: To the owner of a small, blank lines of white I suggest that you get a move on. There are ten times the amont of blood in you that needs to be shopped so that we may continue to serve your needs. On the radio you will find four choices of classical and contemporary music fashioned to fit you needs in a way that you cannnnot comprehend but will look good Sunday morning for any big event I’ve adjusted you rheadrest and tied it around you midsection to ensure that your grip on reality matters with each word I say.

A TV lists up and

A black man begins spooning the food int his mouth so vilently that his gums bleed in torrents.

There’s a taste in my mouth….


A service technician approaches and I retreat under my desk.

It's not that I'm scared of him. He's a nice enough fella. It's just that I don't want to talk to anyone right now. I'm completely whacked out of my mind on any number of things.

Every time I'm under this desk, I might be drunk, high, or coming off of a bad breakup. I don't want to deal with the world out there right now.

Why do you think I crawled under the desk.


"Yes?" I croak from under the desk.

"Denim, we need to reconfigure your computer." Good fuck! What could that possibly mean? I'm I being fired?


"Upgrades." Upgrades. They come like rain. I don't why my computer ever needs an upgrade. When they complete the upgrade, the computer doesn't work any better. All it means is that I get a new password.

I hate passwords. They are the dumbest thing going. I'll wager 95% of people with passwords have them written in ballpoint on their mousepads.

It's the company's privacy, not yours. Why would you care? I mean, we make...monkeys? Ballistic missiles? Squirrels? What the hell does our company make, really? I mean, I never really thought about the big picture – what are my clear and concise instruction booklets instructing people to do? I mean, I get a "Operate Roving Bands of Monkeys" assignment, but what are the monkeys for? To kill what? They must kill something if I have to cross reference my docs with armory. Are we an evil company? Or are we peace keepers.

I always get poor marks on my reviews for "Sees the big picture." I never really cared; I mean, as long as I can go home at the end of the day with enough money to buy some beer or a gram or a Hotpocket.

But, even as I try to fathom what roving monkeys and Planetary Annihilation departments might do, my tunnel vision comes back as I realize I have to distract the service technician as I take down my multiple games of Solitaire.

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