Monday, August 31, 2009

collegial hour

Queasy and out of sorts, starving and can't stomach anything, not even sure how to spell stomach(e), that's the caliber of the day. Boss cordially insists that he will treat the lab to happy hour at 5:45pm and the thought of sitting on one of those tiny metal chairs on that barren concrete wasteland of a quad sipping a tepid beer with some of the more passive-aggressive and burned-out of my workmates is making me repeat the word rage, calmly and coolly, under my breath, over and over. All I want to do is go to the fifth floor balcony and hash out some Friday night feelings, or go to my flat and have an ice cream with my FM, but some sort of weird social decency scale, some level OF HUMAN BONDAGE, is sucking me into that limbo of a concrete quad for an anti-purgatory of a happy hour, and I can't do anything about it, because all my efforts to point out that if we felt like spending time with each other outside of work then happy hour wouldn't have to be mandated are somehow gently deflected or squashily consumed like shooting arrows into a poolful of pudding. I'm left feeling sick and hoarse and dazed and small.

Why are things being demanded of me? They're lucky I'm even here.

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