The Beautiful Kind

I started my new corporate hell job this week. I wore a “Jailhouse Rock” Elvis pin and told my new co-workers it was to celebrate his birthday (January 8.) But in reality, it was to acknowledge the fact that I’m now serving a sentence. I admit, I’m guilty of the crime - wanting a paycheck. God there are so many things I want to buy - glass dildos, sock monkeys, Day of the Dead dioramas…

Anyway, this new job is blowing my mind. There are so many acronyms flying around that some have double meaning, which is confusing much in the same way it’s confusing that in the Greek language there are masculine and feminine versions of numbers.

You need a password for everything. You practically need one to go to the bathroom. You have to lock your computer everytime you leave your desk. You can’t keep a calendar on your desk or people will know your whereabouts. Cameras are prohibited. Everything on your computer is monitored. You have to wear uncomfortable shoes. Worst of all, there are 2000+ employees there, and out of the 100 or so I’ve seen so far, not a single one is fuckable. How lame is that?

To make it even more surreal, each person I meet reminds me of a celebrity or person from my past. One woman looks like Aly McBeal. My co-worker looks like Oprah. One woman looks like Dr. Ruth. My boss resembles Data from Star Trek, minus the weird eyes.

I keep having these horrible urges to scream or smear poop on my face or go to lunch and come back with a swastika drawn on my forehead and act like I don’t know it’s there.

Can I keep it all in my head? Can I use my inside voice? Should I live it up extra hard when I’m not at work to make up for the fact that I sell my soul eight hours a day, or should I resort to wearing a butt plug at the office as a secret declaration of my perverted insanity? Are my seemingly normal co-workers already plugged and that’s why they all act happy? Am I not in on the secret? Maybe I’ll ask right in the middle of our training session today…