As I occupy this rolling chair of slight discomfort, my thoughts venture far far away from my work-related tasks. It’s a way to exit the cubical I’m contained in. This is what keeps me sane, I would tell a psychologist. Not that I need one, or not that I’d admit to needing one. Hell, we all could use the advising listening mood-reader. I would have one now if we could speak through teleprompter as I lounge at home. Maybe she or he or shim could help clear this static-infested noggin of mine.
Forgive me if my writing voice is an out-of-tune piano this morning. Blame me, blame my writing instructor, but don’t blame Jesus. We made a pact. We’re homeboys, compadres. If you’re interested in viewing his work, sometimes he ghost-writes on my blog. (He’d kill me for saying that)
My brain feels like a fuzzy television. It could put good use to two lengthy antennas; antlers. Would you mind holding while I make a phone call? I am at work you know.? I just snuck in two calls, hope that doesn’t bother you. I get hungry when I dial.
Oatmeal slush fills my selfish stomach each morning. This batch is tainted with a brown sugary flavor; otherwise I might go hungry ‘til lunch. I can’t imagine much worse of a meal than cold, soggified, tasteless oatmeal. I’m not always a fan of the chunky texture. If nothing else, oatmeal proves the devouring menace is not high-maintenance.
I have a growing suspicion that these chairs are anti-sleep devices. If you could sit where I sit, your back would never feel completely vertical. You’d shuffle the position coordinates to your liking. Then the next day the discomfort would have you paranoid, looking around for the saboteur who rearranged a few things.
Mind holding while a make a few dials?
– Eric McCarty (3/5/2012)