No paperclips though

I always said it would never happen to me. My youthful ambition was to become a writer and see the world. The masses would flock to buy my words and I would become a professional dreamer, creating worlds from thin air and taking people to them, eyes closed, knuckles white, hurtling into the abyss of the unknown. Yeah, so I'm a workmonkey now. I get up at a hitherto-unknown hour of the morning and make coffee, take a shower, eat breakfast, get on a bus, roll into the office and boot up my workstation. This is what people do these days; they get paid for turning nine hours of each weekday (and some weekends) into an action movie montage of mundane activities. And then they go home, eat, sleep, and do it all over again. But you know what? Here's the incredible, unmistakable thing. I love it. The odds are stacked against it. "An office job," they tell you from the time you pop out from between your mother's legs or are ripped mercilessly from her belly, "is like a great big beige hell. The chains are your keyboard and the whips are the banal commands tumbling down the company hierarchy like ugly children. Don't take an office job. Not even one in advertising." And so it was that I was brainwashed, for nearly a quarter of a century. Office jobs are evil, creative jobs are like employment nectar, and never the twain shall meet. I think they must have been looking the other way the day they met. The office job was standing around, perhaps on a deserted bridge in the middle of the night, complaining that nobody had filled up the coffee machine. The creative job was skipping between the giant metal rafters, its hemp skirt twisting behind it in the wind, a mug of dandelion and burdock tea clutched in a henna-soaked hand. Each one was looking the other way, not expecting there to be anyone there, not that late at night, and then ... Boom. Love at first sight. The creative office job was an easy-going, smart casually attired reality; it was also randy like an oysterbunny, and soon there were many creative office jobs, in drawers and on kitchen counters. They were sitting on the sofas and clinging from the ceilings like mad babboons. There were so many of them, in fact, that I recently got one of my very own, and it's fantastic. Maybe it's just luck, but those office politics that you hear so much about are nonexistent. Everyone gets along, more or less, and there's a neverending supply of slightly-too-cold water to keep me awake when I start to slip into zombific oblivion. My window looks out onto the most beautiful volcanic formation in all of Edinburgh, and there's a cafeteria that sells cheap food and carbonated beverages just downstairs. It's like nine-to-five gainful employment heaven! I just thought I'd have a bit of a gloat.

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