Alarm goes off. 8:50am. FUCK NO.

I wake up 9:40am. Ugh. I must have hit OFF instead of SNOOZE. Scattered papers blanket the floor to my room like a bum about to paint the walls of his shack and stick to the bottom of my feet as I make my way to the sink. I was up until 4:30am frantically redoing a lesson plan for grad school. That's right kids, one day this unshaven mess could be stumbling through the classroom door with a made up story about a car accident and toothpaste streaks running down the corners my mouth. I holler goodbye to my dad who's ass is on the toilet trying to figure out the daily Jumble. "What the hell is SERCES" he mutters to himself. Oh well.

I walk into work where S., who I am positive is mildly retarded, pulls me to his cubicle to show me the Eva Mendes wall paper he put on his desktop himself. I clap and think about getting him a cookie. Mr. B, who's my boss that I sit directly facing, sees me come in so I tell him I had to run to college and physically hand a paper in. In my logic, considering travel time I actually had to get up early to get to work this late so he should understand. He clearly doesn't give a shit and talks about the Mets' collapse last night. I love this job.

Now that there's maybe two hours of actual work to do in an eight hour day, different employees in the office have found ways to establish their worth to the office environment. P., an elderly woman started to make cookies and cakes every single day which I am force fed because I'm a "growing boy". I'm 26 years old. You're giving me heart disease. O., another elderly woman has decided to swipe any and all faxes off of the fax machine, then pretend to work for hours on a stamp proof for a mass health insurance advertisement fax that we get daily. Clever, O. but you're 0 for 20 in answering phone calls and your steamed garlic vegetable lunches make the entire office smell like baby shit for hours. I'd register on monster.com if I were you. C. is a middle aged mother of one precocious child who's a year younger than me, "hates alcohol", and graduated three years before I did from college. Granted, it took me six years to slop through undergrad, but still, no reason to rub it in twice a week. C. has an anger problem and slams her phone down after every call, which in her head makes it seem like she's stressed out from all the work she has, but Mr. B and I just roll our eyes and snicker. While her knowledge of office supplies and everything lame is impressive, she's clearly detrimental to a positive work environment and her open criticism of Mr. B's and my messy desks has put her on notice. C. is a bit of a problem for me because I often look back to her cubicle when I hear her creaky chair move to see her peeking over to look at what's on my monitor. She once scolded me for looking at inappropriate material in front of Mr. B when she caught me looking at 1940's era pinup illustrations. I got her back by telling her husband of her secret smoking habit outside of the warehouse entrance.

Then there's me. I furrow my brows to look busy as I Google Earth Jerry Seinfeld's baseball diamond in the Hamptons. I leave with a headache from all of the furrowing and fear that the eybrow muscles I'm building will leave me looking like a neanderthal. I'm also the only one in the office that won't break a hip going down the basement stairs to access old files. My ultimate security comes from being the office computer tech, helping S., which I did 15 times today teaching him how to arrange his icons around Eva Mendes's face, and others do stupid things like opening attachments in emails. I also take care of Mr. B's accounts, which are the only ones calling these days. Wondering what HE does, I glanced at his computer once to see him reading an article about 50 virgins competing to be one of ten women to marry some African king. You do your thing, Mr. B.