Sometimes when people ask me to do things here, I’m like, “Seriously? Do you know how boring that is? I mean, it’s really boring. Like inhumanely boring–as in human beings should not be made to do that. That’s what machines are for, and once machines gain any level of sentience, we’ll have to think of something else, because no one, not even a partially sentient machine should have to do that. It is a morally unacceptable level of boredom you are requesting someone expose himself to.”
I’ve never said that, but you know, it was an internal dialogue.
This place doesn’t have nearly enough accordions in it, and everyone goes around acting like poems don’t even exist. If a poem was found on the premises, they wouldn’t know what it was. They would think it was a bat that had sadly found it’s way in, and they would hit the poor, misidentified poem with a binder until it smeared onto the industrial carpet.
Bring Your Poem to Work Day would be a mess.
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