by Anonymous |
| Oh, life. Blank, pristine copies stapled atop fresh P.O.s cry out for my markings. My red pen and yellow highlighter. My scent. Red and green lights, blinking, now static, now blinking, teach me of the urgency of customer calls. My sinuses ache. Gina weeps. My hands shake with rage at requests for delayed billing. Gina's voice resounds in my pulsing temple: "How come no one can edit as good as Kathy Twickle?" I slice my wrists with an Exacto knife. I die. The customers complain lustily. Fuck you. |