If My Heart Were A Xerox Machine, You'd Be The Toner
At this time last year, I was several months into what would turn out to be a 9-month run at a cubicle-shaped hell out in Thousand Oaks. During my time there, it was virtually impossible to watch Office Space or episodes of "The Office," both U.K. and U.S. versions. From the constant meetings, to the pointless busywork, to the socially inept and assuredly lonely manager with a lazy eye that creeped all hell out of me, it was a dark time indeed.
On Valentine's Day, my boss distributed pink slips of paper to everyone in my sub-department, on which we were to write notes to each other, which would be passed out later by my boss. I was at a complete loss as to what to write; I hadn't quite come to the point at that office where'd I'd risk a sexual harassment suit just to be fired and have some peace in my life, or I would have turned in some pretty brutal notes. And besides, what was I supposed to write to copy editors? After "You sure to edit some good copy" and "Your dictionary skills are great, I guess," I ran out of ideas.
My boss passed out the cards along with a special card from her for each one of us, and the cheap, cycloptic, spinally malformed woman couldn't even cough up a Starbucks giftcard. I threw the whole mess away.
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