Is there anything so oppressive as expectation? Fuck. I don’t think so.

I remember when the world was my oyster. My fucking oyster. A shellfish waiting to be pried open, filled with goods for me. And there was no hurry for anything to happen. The oyster wasn’t going anywhere. It’s a fucking oyster.

“Stephens! Are you finished with the September numbers yet?”

“Yeah… gimme a few minutes and I’ll send them over.”

Motherfucker. I’ll finish the numbers when I feel like it. I’m trapped in this building; I can’t get out. Maybe if I send this half-ass draft he’ll finish the rest of it and I can get back to doing nothing for a few.

Back to the oysters. They would taste good with hot sauce. Maybe Oysters Rockefeller. I dunno. I could eat whatever I wanted before. Now it’s just me, the cat, some woman that doesn’t understand my personal hell, and a mortgage that isn’t leaving for the next 40 years. How’s that for expectation?

I suppose it’s my own fault. I made these choices. But no one told me any better. I can’t even listen to the new Radiohead without getting an earful from Sara or some asshole in the cube next to me. Fuck, I don’t bitch when I hear Chicago or fucking Toby Keith or some other pop-country homo blaring over the wall, but the minute Thom Yorke whines, or Jimi rips into his guitar, or God forbid that the Flaming Lips come on. Then the monkeys really start to go apeshit. Some asshat threw a piece of paper at me the other day. Never mind that he’s a huge douchebag and sings Baby Bash at the top of his lungs while he takes shits in the bathroom that smell like burning rubber. But like I said, I made these choices, and now I have to deal with the fact that my choices were shitty.

The only thing that I get any pleasure from these days is my own bitterness with the state of things. I wrap it around me like a warm electric blanket and quietly hope for incineration or at least incapacitation from overheating. I used to hate grumpy old people. Now I enjoy their company more than anyone else. They understand that everyone else is a fucking sonofabitch and that they are too stupid to realize it.

*Sigh*

Well, I’ll send that lame ass report, skate by for thirty minutes, and head to lunch. Maybe that auditor will come by again. She was kinda hot, and she’s a lot easier on the eyes than Fat Ethan, that’s for sure. Plus she likes Wayne Coyne.