Saturday, 12 January 2013

Leaking Intellect (An Alphabet Story)

"Another day, another dollar". What a stupid mantra, I say looking at the aged animation on the wall.
Bloody stupid job, I despised the job, I could feel my I.Q. lower each day.
"Customer service: there is no traffic jam on the extra mile"
Do they really expect people to buy in to this crap?
Easy money is how my colleagues describe this job.
Few of them knew the real reason I'm here.
Getting in to position and setting up, simple enough, but I'm annoyed that I have to be here early to do this.
Here I am, ten minutes before my shift officially starts, hunting for a chair and loading programs.
I can't believe that I have to skip my last smoke for four hours to come in and play musical chairs, snatching one whilst someone's away.
Joke! That's what it is. A fecking joke.
Keeping a simple thing like a chair should be easier, surely you'd notice someone leave with one? So why were there less chairs then desks?

Looking at the clock in the corner of my monitor, I feel my heart sink a little deeper.
My ears tingle and pop, I wonder if its my sanity or simply my intellect leaking out.
Normally, I'm fairly laid back, pretty chilled, but this place just raises my blood pressure.
Ok here goes, 10 o'clock, "good morning, you are speaking to James, how may I help?"
Pausing for the response, I'm already gone, auto-pilot has taken over.
Questions and demands bat between us like a ball.
Relief as the dead tone rings in my ear, although it lasts milliseconds before being replaced by the beep of an incoming call.
Sincerity, as false and sugary as a McDonald's donut, scrapes my throat as it's forced out.
Tortuously I take call after excruciating call, feeling like a mother of a newborn on maternity leave. I want to stand up and scream "G*ddamn it. I need an intelligent conversation!"
Uninterestedly the hours tick by. My ears leaking my brains.
Various faces around me all display the same tell tale, defeated smiles.
Wondering how the ones that are genuinely smiling do it, perplexes me, I must ask.
Xoanon and other perverse objet d’art clutter desks.
Youth turns into old age seamlessly.
Zapping energy and intelligence in equal measure.

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