Well shit, kids. Ask anyone who has ever known me since that cold day I sprang forth into the noxious Delaware air 29 years ago to describe a place they would never expect to find me and, chances are, it would be some approximation of where I'm currently sitting: cubicle land. This may be rock bottom. I sure hope so.
After a (short) lifetime of promising to never, ever end up working at Initech for the likes of Bill Lumberg, I find myself on the interior side of a 5-foot high green cubicle wall. My only reminder of the outside world are the faint reflections of interstate traffic in the light fixtures above. I can see freedom more directly by standing up and gazing out over the sea of fake walls to the windows in the distance, but that just feels too much like an inmate glimpsing his past through the bars of his cell. Just so you know, though, from a flat-footed stance, I can see three highway billboards (diesel at the Pilot station is going for 3.839), one super-tall Krystal sign, and a long, low ridge with new houses going up on it. I think I'll stay low and enjoy my recycled calendar pictures instead.
Just this morning I had a quiet, out-of-the-way shared office with a view of some lovely trees sporting new white blossoms underneath which a groundhog, recently emerged from hibernation, idled his days away on a carpet of lush green grass. Sure, the interstate was in the background of that scene, too, but it was far less depressing than the cubicle land to which we have been moved. I think most of the (relatively) cute girls in this place worked down there, too, but they never talked to me anyway.
But let this be the death knell. I've been wanting to get out of this place and now I've got one more reason to. I just need to move on before Nina from Corporate Accounts Payable starts answering the phones next door.