I’m sitting. That’s the fastest way to describe how my work shift is going. There isn’t many ways for me to jazz that up for you. I’m debating on whether I possess the linguistic prowess to describe my day to a greater degree of detail, but truthfully, I don’t believe I’m that skilled.
I’m sitting at a table. I guess that helps. The table is one of those old PTA meeting tables that have the foldable legs for quick, not-so-easy storage because who has a closet with 12 feet of storage space?
I’m sitting at a large square table in a small brick room. The bricks are reminiscent of the ones lining prison cells. They’re covered in a cream cheese colored house paint that is sitting comfortably under a thin layer of dust and cobwebs. It’s a perfect metaphor for how my job is—an comfortably, unkempt prison.
I’m sitting in an uncomfortable chair at a large brown table in a small yellow brick room with some coworkers. They’re having their own convos around me. I’m simply existing between the lines of each of their assorted paragraphs, trying not to be read. Someone spent time with their nieces and nephews. Someone spent time with their children. And someone spent time all alone. It’s like a bad telling of the three little pigs, except there’s no wolf around to consume their flesh. Maybe I’m their wolf? Am I supposed to be eating them? I had a banana and some oranges this morning and I’m really not in the mood for any protein.
I’m a cannibalistic sociopath that’s sitting in an uncomfortable chair at a large brown table in a small yellow brick room surrounded by unwilling prey without any hot sauce. Fuck my life. The one thing that would probably make this tale interesting is sitting on the door of my refrigerator at home—hot sauce. I’m looking at them right now and wondering how I’d go about it—eating them.
I suppose I would go after the one on the left first. She’s a bit bigger and probably the biggest threat. She’d actually have a chance of defeating me. I can’t allow that. Hot sauce to the eyes, a swift stomp on her exposed ankle…and she’s down…ready for her flesh to be consumed.
Next would be the one on the couch. She’s the smallest, but probably the fastest. She’s been squirming for about thirty minutes, so I can tell she is uncomfortable. I’ll put 13 inches of steel toe to her ribs. Her lungs will most likely collapse after that and she’d fold in half like a laptop, a laptop with blood basted organs. Perhaps I’m a zombie rather than a wolf. I don’t really know.
The last victim would be the one on my right. She’s from the islands so I assume that means she’s always seasoned with something spicy. At any given moment she could be tasting like a spicy plantain or some ox tails or jerk chicken. I’d just go straight in with my teeth on her. Her hands are small…so nibbling her fingers off would take all of seven seconds. After that I can just drink the Cruzan rum directly from her blood stream as it runs freely out of the open spickets of her finger holes.
So I suppose I have a game plan. My stomach is still full of banana and oranges, but I’m certain digestion will make room for them in a bit. But until then, I’ll just sit quietly at this large table in the small brick room—patiently and quietly waiting.