Hell on earth

   I realize that this post is going to deal with first world problems. There are plenty of fine folks over in Afghanistan and Iraq who would say that my rant is melodramatic and ridiculous. They would be right. 

  Now, that being said. this post deals with a little slice of hell I've been forced to deal with on the daily: Office life.  Yep, with the cubicles and the fluorescent lights and all that. I'm sure your wondering what a wild motherfucker like myself is doing in an office building, and I don't blame you. I deliver them sandwiches. Yep. For a company whos' name I'm sure you've all heard and seen and who's sandwiches you all probably love. I've got the lovely job(srs) of riding my bike around all day slingin sammies at the fine folks of uptown Charlotte. Its a totally legit job, considering the hours I keep. Except for that one little part. Now maybe I'ts just me being a twenty-something male; fear of commitment and all that. But there's nothing worse in the world than the prospect of waking up every morning and rolling into the office. with its bright lights, cheap carpet, bright white walls. The cubicle with that same shit carpet all over the walls. A couple photos of your family on the desk, a piece of flare to show how "original" and "unique" you really are. the gurgling water cooler; The cramped break room with terrible coffee and poorly prepared lunch brought in your finest Tupperware. Where every week or so you decide to throw caution to the wind and order delivery.

 Enter me, the big bearded sweaty dude who rolls in with bag full-o-goodies. Modern day drug dealer to the mid 30's crowd. Yeah, I got salami in this motherfucker, extra mayo too... Does your wife know? Don't worry, your secrets safe with me, just as long as you tip. This is where it gets weird. See, these people generally pity my kind. It's hot, I'm forced to wear long sleeves, I'm riding a bike. Just a low income college dipshit scraping a living off the generosity of the well heeled. Now, on the one hand, I thrive on this pity. It generates the majority of my income. Tips that is. But on the other hand it just makes me want to scream. You pit me? REALLY? Is this really the life you wanted when you were twelve?  nine-to-five in a place you probably hate? filing reports and reading memo's, all to pay a mortgage on a house that probably ain't all that great. Fighting traffic; Everything else. Just waiting for the weekend so you can crack out the Bud light and watch grown men run around in tights. Kinda twisted don't ya think?

  Maybe I don't know what I'm talking about. But I'll take my wandering bullshit lifestyle to being  tethered to the cubicle any day.