I'm running through a strange and quivering psychedelic land where the walls are made of a soft mesh-like orange fiber, with a gelatinous consistency that makes every step a buoyant and velvety spring that send me hurtling far across the landscape. The landscape is made up of something that responds to me in a fashion something like that of an anemone in a tidal pool. Little electric charges shiver up and down my fingers. I appear to be in some kind of cosmic egg yolk. But there's this pervading sense of urgency, which makes me feel like I forgot someone at the grocery store, or misplaced my keys somewhere. Maybe on the table in the hall next to the door standing between the yolk and the white…
And on that epiphany, my alarm clock rings affirmatively, with a resounding aftertaste of impunity. Like the damn thing believes it's god-given purpose is singing it's heart and soul to the utter demise of my hearing system at six o' clock in the fucking morning. I'm not too clear on how the whole "hearing" thing really works; hearing cells/ear drums, special microbes, or little green guys… whatever is in there is no doubt forever damaged.
I stumble into the shower, half awake, and neglecting to remember the importance of removing one's socks prior to any sort of bathing procedure. They were soggy and kind of warm, so I let them stay where they wanted to, clinging pathetically to my ankles. Of course, by the time I am fully awake, I'm dressed (avec shoes) and busily burning the coffee before the realizations start hitting: 1) The wet socks are still where they were twenty minutes ago, wrapped in shoes now, 2) The alarm clock is still ringing, (bless it's little heart), and 3) Amadeus is attempting to pee behind the stereo. Again. (Amadeus is a cat, by the way. A rather fat and petulant one, at that.)
This is my life. Monday morning. Hell's apathy section. It revolves primarily around my drone job, which is still kind of indefinable, like "assistant", "consultant", "creative manager", and occasional "secretary". This is all for a company which markets weird metal pieces that are apparently "essential in the mass production and sale of mechanical and non-functional objects." My job, as the creative manager/consultant/assistant is mainly of the coffee-getting-note-taking-garbage-removing-donut-buying sort. They tacked on "creative consultant" because they decided a two-cent raise would mean they could get my opinion on the marketability of their product. For men who wear bold striped ties and tweed jackets in a way that could only be described as definitive and fervent, I guess the fact that I came to the office dressed without the assistance of a loving wife held me up as some sort of marketing/design expert. No matter, I suppose. Those two cents goes a long way.
After a long (and rather smelly) public transition into the corporate gray world, I spent the morning sharpening a rather intimidating pile of #2's, while Mr. Olmstein studied several models of space-age bolts, muttering to himself. I came dangerously close to feeding his two favorite pens into the sharpener, but quickly stopped myself when I realized where I was going.
Mr. Olmstein turned around, gesturing at me with the strange bolt-thing, and asked me a question. Unfortunately, it was rather hard to decipher, because his words came out as clicking noises, like typing on a keyboard. I strained, watching his mouth shape the words carefully. And to no avail. I blinked, and shook my head several times, as his face warped and blurred. It was all very similar to a low-budget sci-fi flick special effect.
"Excuse me?"
Olmstein looked worried and irritated (at the same time, which is very interesting), and his forehead furrowed together so deeply that I feared his eyebrows might jump off his face, crawl away, and turn into butterflies.
"The design, Phoenix?"
I stared into my coffee cup. LSD never really did have a distinctive taste. I was undoubtedly the victim of someone's cruel joke. I rubbed my eyes and tried to fasten my attention on the doobob that Olmstein was brandishing. It looked exactly like every other doobob that we produce, here at Olmstein & Fidget.
"Fantastic," I mumble.
Olmstein sighed in that special exasperated fashion that is so inherent to balding and impatient bosses all over America. He left the room, his footprints leaving smears of glowing color that gradually faded. I was losing my mind. Either that, or Olmstein was transcending the realm of humanity and becoming a cosmic butterfly. And I figured that going insane would come first. In the designated scheme of things.
The rain drips down the window. Depression sets in.
I can see my face distorted in every drop as it slides down the glass and towards the window ledge, whose tasteful steel-blue paint has begun to raise and curl, as if in protest. "Paint me red!" it screams. I suddenly feel very sad for the paint…mixed as an apathetic shade of gray, while deep inside, all it ever wanted was to be a flamboyant rouge. God is heartless and cruel.
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