1986
2003-07-31 | 10:34 p.m.
I had that gnawing feeling in my gut about work, that "I haven't used my brain this little since I was a fan of Full House" feeling, that feeling of knowing that you can do better with your life but you just continue the normal hum-drum ho-hum of your life only because you need money.

Things will change. Amidst all this data entry, I have had ample time to discuss the pertinent things in life like how I will be ever able to afford trips to the dentist, how my brain is beginning to atrophy with every number I type into the computer, how my fingers will fall off within the next two weeks if I don't stop to rest them for a little bit. I also tried to alleviate my mental boredom by taking a trip to the washroom to rest, but what with all the stupid people coming in and out wanting to pee, I started to get a bit irritated that they wouldn't respect my privacy and leave me in right peace. I am also bitter that washrooms in office settings typically are not catered for the half-hour toilet trips. Any attempts to lean back and relax would result in the flush handle digging into my back or me accidentally nudging said flush handle and causing a premature flush. Both are not relaxing when you are sitting bare on porcelain.

So I must retreat to the data entry room.

One of my coworkers is a ripe 17 years old. I never really thought that was young until another gal and I started talking about movies and we realized that he was born the year Stand By Me was released (1986 for all you failures at math). I almost flipped out of my chair, arms flailing, spinning chaotically in my ergonomic chair to look at him in the eye. His body is as old as my love for a movie. And now, now this body sits here in front of me, and in a month's time will be sitting in a class of first year university students studying something that will presumably prepare them for the working world out there that will bring them heaps of prestige and honour and cold hard cash.

I am not one to dote on time, but where the hooha has it gone? And why am I using up 40 hours of my week typing things that don't mean a blip to me, nor to anyone in the grand scheme of life? And why am I doing something that I could have very well done back in 1986, a ten year old who, herself, had a lightning-typing speed. 17 years later and it comes to this.

And I feel fine....... - 2004-02-23
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