Ya? Just try and get up, fucker.
Good Morning America
#whotel #summer #selfie
Elbert Hubbard (via katzenfee)
I sit at a desk on the 16th floor of a building named after a bank. the bank’s on the bottom floor. The floor I’m on is a cluster of desks and printers and computer screens all hodge-podged together in a sprawling unorganized fashion under florescent lights.
Everyone stares at their computers, talking to it, to each other through it. Occasionally you’ll hear a fake laugh. I am to be typing a PO for t-shirts sold yesterday. My deadline is in 25 minutes. Until I write the PO the vendor cant get paid. Until he is paid, he will not ship. Customers wont receive their t-shirts. They wont buy again, oh no!
I’m lost in my headphones, in my head. Fuck the t-shirts. Fuck the balloons. Your makeup makes me sick.
The girl with the flu comes here anyway. Dayquil. Sneezes. She looks pale.
Deadline looming…emails piling. Girl with the flu looks my way. She knows (somehow) that I’m thinking about her pain.
Must focus. No mistake allowed. Ruled. Friction. Goals. Target. Margins.
I look up. New COO walks by. I just finished sending an Animal Collective interview to the old COO. I wonder if the new COO likes A.C.
"What’s the day? What you doing?
How’s your mood in that song?”
My boss walks by with his wife and his baby. I don’t extend the pretend curiosity. I’m not curious. He put on weight. She lost weight.
SKU 311343. QTY 3. Price: $7.92.
"My Girls" comes on the radio. Tears roll up in my eyes. I hide them. I lip sing along: "There isn’t much that I feel I’d need."
The Russian accountant who just quit because he isn’t getting paid enough comes by. Off and Gone.
Finally some heart in this god forsaken town