Qaidi Number

In this air-conditioned lull, I find myself devoid of inspiration. This room is dangerous. This setting is putrid. If I forcefully tie my attention in holy matrimony to this chilling silence, I could hear the inaudible wails of ambition. Such “rock stars” we make. Well, the cubicle is a stage and weekly reviews are the grand performance. Subsequent salary credits signal the encore, and we break into a jive all over again. I wonder how the miracle of cellular orgies came to this. 

This is as close to purgatory I can be while my breath still has the misfortune of not deserting me—what a fancy way of saying “while I’m alive.” As if lending character to an inconsequential piece of writing through the cadence of supercilious wordiness can serve as my salvation. Here I go again.

Enter Entitled Asshole A. He’s got an irritable smirk on his face: the kind which has the trappings of lost dreams and the cognisance of his increasing waistline, which betrays his notion of feeling superior to others depending on the number of zeroes attached to his bank account. He’s living life king size. By “living” I mean submitting to a magisterial clock that makes him forget there was a time when he too nurtured ambitions. By “life” I mean the construct set up by his boss and, of course, advertising. That Giorgio Armani suit will be his even if he has to work all day during his birthday—fuck you Dentsu. And “king size?” I’ll let you figure that one out by yourself, Jack. 

Welcome to the great depression of the twenty-first century. And this shit will hit you harder than the Bubonic plague. What willing hosts we make.

I need some coffee…

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