depressive and melancholic thoughts i have at work

• Applying yellow highlighter to my corneas so that my workspace seems full of my own and my co-workers’ urine, that I am submerged in it, and witnessing the penultimate moments before my drowning.

• Clamping mini-binder clip to various points of my body to mimic the sensation of a rabid “office weasel” trying to chew off my flesh, at which it is partially successful, as evidenced by shreds of flesh on the floor.

• I am a 25 years old, half my life is over, as I don’t plan on living past age 50.

• Inadvertent Blackface after HP™ 490cn black toner cartridge comically puffs all over my face, by which guilt-ridden white people are discomforted yet silenced.

• An uncoiled paper clip slowly guided into Bill Gates’ urethra every time “end task” doesn’t actually end the task of trying to unfreeze Microsoft Outlook.

• Finding out my calendar was a lie, that every day has been Wednesday, and will forever be.

• A flaccid penis dipped in scalding coffee in order to wake it.

• The unblinking stare of my skull underneath the thin bloody sheath of my face managing a grimace, if only granted an expression.

• Every pixel on my screen as a tightly packed maggot squirming, offering light.

• Going home to clothing catalogs still addressed to my sick mother in the post; 3-day old leftover pizza eaten cold; dispirited masturbation; noisy next door neighbors speaking in indecipherable foreign language; falling asleep in front of reruns of QI, waking up to Jeremy Clarkson’s pink-swollen face.

• Neon green Post-it® notes with inconsequential work passwords written on them falling off and disappearing, not being able to log in to any account, but life oddly remaining exactly the same.

• My happiest moments in life were as a weed smoker.

• Homemade 3-Bean Chili made out of the human — one recently deceased Joan Rivers — who lovingly made it, and accidentally fell in, henceforth called “Rivers Chili.”

• I may have Reticent Tourette’s, cussing out everyone and everything in my silent cowardly mental hole.

• My antioxidant green tea anthropomorphically tea-bagging me, somehow.

• The chronic smell of Pot Noodle in the microwave slowly permeating through my pores, until I too smell that way.

• An imperceptibly uncapped Sharpie marker in manager’s desk causing her, via prolonged “sniffing” neurological effects, to become attracted to me.

• Te  e t h    f  a ll in g    o  ut   an  d     h it   t  i n   g    t h  e    s p a  ce    b a     r.

• Old folder titled “New Folder” containing concept art of old work, once new, suddenly requested by severe and irrational co-worker ASAP, right at the moment I suffer from diarrhea.

• A pop-up window popping out at the same time my hernia does.

• A dozen Krispy-Kreme donuts, in an oily cardboard box in the back, exuding pinched anuses by their very swollen shape.
• Piercing my nose with a stapler.

• “COPY” stamp stamping every page of a 500-page ream of copy paper until running out of ink, melting, fusing into my hand, forming an alien-like stump.

• A useless boner.

• Chris Brown, Will.i.am, and Jeremy Beadle on a yacht somewhere.

• The person who is to stab me twenty-five times to death twenty-five years from now is being conceived after the twenty-fifth pelvic thrust in the staff toilet this very moment.

• A naked 240 lbs. cleaner sitting in my chair at 8:13 p.m. during my shift at the other job pleasuring himself with a Dettol disinfecting wipe.

• I have been eating lunch at the same canteen for six years.

• Someone has ejaculated into my takeaways at some point.

• Spotify playlist “Morrissey” playing on volume low, somewhat forgotten, in my locker for +4 hours until suicide seems like a non-dramatic answer to chronic depression.

• Paris Hilton, Amanda Holden, and Kim Kardashian getting their nails done while complaining about it.

• 16GB USB-drive hypothetically containing every positive feeling I’ve ever had being only 0.017% full.

• Snorting dead skin cells found under the keyboard.

• Girl standing in front me filling out her prescription for contraceptives, then looking up into my eyes and being able to see all of my porn viewing history from 2002.

• A useless heart.

• Monthly pay-slips indicating direct deposits into bank account, from which I am able to finance my consumerist addiction consisting of food binges, unnecessary “more” shirts I never wear, and the perennial iTunes download of mediocre bands with better hair than me.

• A jar of eye-crust balanced on every computer monitor as metaphor for dissonant vision and spiritual blindness.

• Leaving paper jam originating from “manual feed tray” of Lexmark C3501 printer inside the dumb beast, hitting “start” over and over again until it explodes, sending beige plastic shrapnel into my neck.

• Co-workers from both jobs finding out I want to cook my father’s face in a frying pan like an omelet.

• Building rectangular Bauhaus-y igloo out of reams of prescription requests and other paper, moving inside, and being discovered two months later shriveled into a piece of dehydrated salmon.

• Two black birds seen flying outside earlier on my way in, one of which will be raped by the other in a leafless tree.

• Slide to reply new message on iphone lighting up my locker with significance the ominous message left by a confused lady who thinks I’m her son, and me believing her.

• Publishing this article to both console and enable my histrionic disorder, compulsively refreshing page for new comments, only to be corrected by people with good grammar and bad moods.