My office is a wasteland of broken promises to myself and listless dreams that will never fly. The blank, sterile walls render me bereft of imagination, shorn of creativity. Oh how I loathe and abhor Friday morning, cruel mistress of torture and affliction. Pity me as I sink into a mire of pixelated, networked oblivion. I am swallowed alive by rampaging file-o-faxes and excreted out by empty toner cartridges. I swoon on my rolling chair and lapse into delusions of nothingness.
If I were one of those irritating people who had music on their site, invading the audio space of those of us who listen to music on our computers, this would be accompanied by some happy clappy Souxsie and the Banshees or something equally dismal and puerile. I am so glad adolescence of over a decade behind me.