i was resting my feet at work, jotting down notes on a live banana that morning, when i realized that i didnt want to be there anymore. and not just there, but anywhere where my name would be not-so proudly displayed on the front side of a pin, or magnet, or workman style shirt. those shirts that are always missing a vital button, or have that distinct odor that you may be the first human to wear this work jersey, but possibly not the first mammal.

yes, it was true, i had that epiphinous moment that all the retailers get at one point in their celebrity-like lives when i thought to myself, "wow! i really dont give a shit about these peoples never ending needs and desires." but what do i do now? these years of public servitude have not rendered me a wealthy man, there is no lexus in my drive, no italian marble fountains in my yard... not even a yard to speak of really, certainly none i can call my own.

scar tissue from the years of kitchen devotion, a slightly yellow-ish pallor from days under the flourescent bulbs, but mostly an underwhelming aftertaste of bitter and venom from these past experiences with jon q. public. these things are mine, and they do not fit well on any resume. there is no slot for emotional scarring or general distrust on any application. and to be honest, no future employer wants to know that youre one good argument or company oversight or romantic slight away from the madness that can take over the public and quiet man. the madness that can turn a man into a maniacal daffy duck creature, bouncing about like a crazed idiot, punching gallons of milk in the face, pantsing the elder gentlemen, or smacking the asses of the proud and noble trophy wives. so where do i go now?

back to work in six minutes, thats where. so i continued to write on that banana from a first person banana point of view. things like, " i sound disgusting when you eat me." and " candy that share my flavor taste nothing like i do." and " if you think im a phallic fruit, then thats your problem, not mine." and i sat in a white plastic chair, with my feet crossed on a fold out card table and thought, jesus... is this really it?
is this as good as it gets? and the answer i came up with...
was no. no, ill hold out for much longer than i should, which is already much longer than i should have. and ill finally reach my snapping point, a point of super saturation, and then find a nice office cubicle to curl up in. and slowly. painfully. but not publicly. wither.
back to work you little grunt. back to work.