I've decided to start keeping a blog since, well, I don't have much better to spend my time on. TPS reports? None of those, but you get the basic idea. It's all busy work. Working at pretending to work.
And then there's the rather precarious situation I've found myself in. Office jobs aren't usually that dangerous--the occasional communicable disease spreading like proverbial wildfire, sure--but things aren't quite that peachy here. Since the probability of my dying--or my undying, as the case may be-- is rather high, I figure I should probably chronicle what time I have left.
Bob was the first to get sick. He kinda had to be, right? Bob. Such a plain name. A dispensable name. The kind of character that dies first in every horror, thriller, action, or black comedy film. And speaking of black--I never understood why the black guy always dies first in movies. If anything, blacks throughout history have shown a penchant for survival and ingenuity. But given that real life more often resembles movies these days than anything in our collective past, if Bob had been black, Bob definitely would have gotten the sickness doubleplusfast.
To be honest, though, nobody really noticed at first. Not to put too light of a tone on the whole thing, but we really are basically zombies to start with.
"What the fuck, Bob?" Those are the words that came screeching out of Little Steve's mouth to awaken us from our stupor. Something was definitely wrong when he stood up with a bloody gash in his arm in the shape of Bob's teeth. In reply, Bob shrugged and went back to staring at his Twitter stream.
Now, Bob still went home at first, but he stayed at the office later and later as time progressed. He started showing up earlier as well. He was obsessed with his work--and that's how you can tell a real zombie from one of your typical office schmuck types: you aren't going to find one of the uninfected begging to stay at work, unless they really, really, pissed off their wife and/or girlfriend.
Is it sexist that I didn't mention women pissing off their boyfriends? Probably, but not any less than the institution which legitimizes those kinds of statements. Besides, in the immortal words of Dr. Sheldon Cooper, "bitches be crazy."
But where was I?
Right.
While unfazed by the oozing gash in Steve's arm--which required sixteen stitches, BTW--our TM, Joe, started getting worried when he saw how much unapproved overtime Bob was accruing. (Naturally, the managers are more concerned about how the company looks on paper than about what is actually getting done.) Bob mostly just groaned as Joe have him a stern talking to, but Joe finally offered a rather shady deal, whereby Bob could volunteer as much of his time as he wanted if he "really needed to be away from home," but he could only clock 40 hours a week. There was more groaning on Bob's part, but Joe only seemed to take that as agreement. I imagine he got that a lot around here.
Steve's progression followed suit, naturally--and do I ever need to expand my vocabulary, since I keep describing things as natural which no sane person would describe thusly. I won't bother you with the largely identical details between Bob's case and Steve's.
Now, it's not like you see in the movies. Bob, Steve, and the others who have managed to get too close to Bob and Steve, aren't chasing us around the office trying to consume our brains. It's more like the excitative stage of rabies mixed with opiate withdrawal. They like doing mindless things--an excess of external stimuli just seems to irritate them--so really, they don't stick out too much in an office environment. And yes, if people get too close or make too much noise, they bite.
I'm not surprised that we were so slow to figure it out, when you really think about it. The mind tends toward atrophy when you sit all day staring at gray walls, in a gray cube, with the soft glow of a monitor as your only companion. I mean, some of us are just fucking idiots (names withheld to protect the identities of the stupid), but even with us educated types, it's only a matter of time before the environment takes its toll.
You're probably wondering, dearest reader--ooh! I sound so nineteenth century--you're probably wondering why we didn't contact the CDC or some other government agency when we finally started piecing it together. It's simple, really. Would you tell a government agency, or anyone for that matter, that "vampires live next door" if that particular phrasing wasn't immediately preceded by "a group of crazy cultists who believe they are"? No. You wouldn't. The same goes for werewolves, ghosts, aliens, and, most definitely, zombies. As much fun as I've always thought it would be to play at Harry Houdini, I don't exactly want to end up in a straight jacket against my will.
I'll be the first to admit that this current incarnation of society has made us dumbly obedient--but hey, it comes with quad core processors and Super AMOLED screens.
So, you see my predicament. I have to keep coming to work to earn a paycheck with which to feed my Magic: the Gathering addiction. (Plus, they provide me with free internet, and the firewall is a joke to SSH through.) But, by the same token, every day I come here could be the last one I have to enjoy my geeky pursuits. Therein lies the rub.
If I keep quiet though, keep my head down, and just pretend to do work, it should work out in my favor. In a way, it's not much different from my pre-Zombie j-o-b. Besides, the Zs really only get irritable and try to bite you if you invade their personal space, and I can't honestly say that I blame them. I know I've felt that way before. Doc says it's the blood sugar. Gotta watch my blood sugar.
Insert dramatic pause here.
You're the only one's I can talk to, my internet friends. Under the veil of internet anonymity I can share my story without drawing too much of the wrong kind of attention to myself. Someday, when the truth becomes known, I'll be able to come out of hiding and share my story publicly.
But until then, please don't try to involve any government agencies, for your own good. They'll just think you're crazy. Also, don't try to track me down so you can be brave and come rescue me. I've obfuscated my IP address to ensure that you can't pinpoint my location. I just need you to listen. That's your sole role in all of this.
Shit.
It's only 9:18.
I still have eight and a half more hours of this drudgery. I was really hoping this whole blogging thing would kill more of my day. Le sigh. I guess it's back to doing Google searches for cheese.
~M
X
We've all seen Office Space, right?
Bonus! Damn It Feels Good To Be A Gangsta...
And if you've got one of those viruses, I'm all ears.
Bonus! Damn It Feels Good To Be A Gangsta...
And if you've got one of those viruses, I'm all ears.
And then there's the rather precarious situation I've found myself in. Office jobs aren't usually that dangerous--the occasional communicable disease spreading like proverbial wildfire, sure--but things aren't quite that peachy here. Since the probability of my dying--or my undying, as the case may be-- is rather high, I figure I should probably chronicle what time I have left.
Bob was the first to get sick. He kinda had to be, right? Bob. Such a plain name. A dispensable name. The kind of character that dies first in every horror, thriller, action, or black comedy film. And speaking of black--I never understood why the black guy always dies first in movies. If anything, blacks throughout history have shown a penchant for survival and ingenuity. But given that real life more often resembles movies these days than anything in our collective past, if Bob had been black, Bob definitely would have gotten the sickness doubleplusfast.
X
Tupac got shot. And MLK Jr. didn't exactly die of old age either. I was thinking more along the lines of "climbing out of the bowels of slavery", or something equally dramatic. That clearly isn't working out for me. So, sue me.
X
Honestly, I'm not a huge fan of 1984. Not the ending, anyways. But Newspeak? Now that's the bee's knees.
To be honest, though, nobody really noticed at first. Not to put too light of a tone on the whole thing, but we really are basically zombies to start with.
"What the fuck, Bob?" Those are the words that came screeching out of Little Steve's mouth to awaken us from our stupor. Something was definitely wrong when he stood up with a bloody gash in his arm in the shape of Bob's teeth. In reply, Bob shrugged and went back to staring at his Twitter stream.
Now, Bob still went home at first, but he stayed at the office later and later as time progressed. He started showing up earlier as well. He was obsessed with his work--and that's how you can tell a real zombie from one of your typical office schmuck types: you aren't going to find one of the uninfected begging to stay at work, unless they really, really, pissed off their wife and/or girlfriend.
Is it sexist that I didn't mention women pissing off their boyfriends? Probably, but not any less than the institution which legitimizes those kinds of statements. Besides, in the immortal words of Dr. Sheldon Cooper, "bitches be crazy."
But where was I?
Right.
While unfazed by the oozing gash in Steve's arm--which required sixteen stitches, BTW--our TM, Joe, started getting worried when he saw how much unapproved overtime Bob was accruing. (Naturally, the managers are more concerned about how the company looks on paper than about what is actually getting done.) Bob mostly just groaned as Joe have him a stern talking to, but Joe finally offered a rather shady deal, whereby Bob could volunteer as much of his time as he wanted if he "really needed to be away from home," but he could only clock 40 hours a week. There was more groaning on Bob's part, but Joe only seemed to take that as agreement. I imagine he got that a lot around here.
Steve's progression followed suit, naturally--and do I ever need to expand my vocabulary, since I keep describing things as natural which no sane person would describe thusly. I won't bother you with the largely identical details between Bob's case and Steve's.
Now, it's not like you see in the movies. Bob, Steve, and the others who have managed to get too close to Bob and Steve, aren't chasing us around the office trying to consume our brains. It's more like the excitative stage of rabies mixed with opiate withdrawal. They like doing mindless things--an excess of external stimuli just seems to irritate them--so really, they don't stick out too much in an office environment. And yes, if people get too close or make too much noise, they bite.
I'm not surprised that we were so slow to figure it out, when you really think about it. The mind tends toward atrophy when you sit all day staring at gray walls, in a gray cube, with the soft glow of a monitor as your only companion. I mean, some of us are just fucking idiots (names withheld to protect the identities of the stupid), but even with us educated types, it's only a matter of time before the environment takes its toll.
You're probably wondering, dearest reader--ooh! I sound so nineteenth century--you're probably wondering why we didn't contact the CDC or some other government agency when we finally started piecing it together. It's simple, really. Would you tell a government agency, or anyone for that matter, that "vampires live next door" if that particular phrasing wasn't immediately preceded by "a group of crazy cultists who believe they are"? No. You wouldn't. The same goes for werewolves, ghosts, aliens, and, most definitely, zombies. As much fun as I've always thought it would be to play at Harry Houdini, I don't exactly want to end up in a straight jacket against my will.
I'll be the first to admit that this current incarnation of society has made us dumbly obedient--but hey, it comes with quad core processors and Super AMOLED screens.
So, you see my predicament. I have to keep coming to work to earn a paycheck with which to feed my Magic: the Gathering addiction. (Plus, they provide me with free internet, and the firewall is a joke to SSH through.) But, by the same token, every day I come here could be the last one I have to enjoy my geeky pursuits. Therein lies the rub.
If I keep quiet though, keep my head down, and just pretend to do work, it should work out in my favor. In a way, it's not much different from my pre-Zombie j-o-b. Besides, the Zs really only get irritable and try to bite you if you invade their personal space, and I can't honestly say that I blame them. I know I've felt that way before. Doc says it's the blood sugar. Gotta watch my blood sugar.
Insert dramatic pause here.
You're the only one's I can talk to, my internet friends. Under the veil of internet anonymity I can share my story without drawing too much of the wrong kind of attention to myself. Someday, when the truth becomes known, I'll be able to come out of hiding and share my story publicly.
But until then, please don't try to involve any government agencies, for your own good. They'll just think you're crazy. Also, don't try to track me down so you can be brave and come rescue me. I've obfuscated my IP address to ensure that you can't pinpoint my location. I just need you to listen. That's your sole role in all of this.
Shit.
It's only 9:18.
I still have eight and a half more hours of this drudgery. I was really hoping this whole blogging thing would kill more of my day. Le sigh. I guess it's back to doing Google searches for cheese.
~M
Subscribe for updates and follow my attempt at survival in a zombified workplace. To be true, if there wasn't a whole anonymous internet to talk to about my zombie issues, I'd probably have taken the bite already. Thanks, internet. I appreciate it.
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