Читать книгу Escape from Coolville - Sherman Sutherland - Страница 9

I did it. I have officially seen all of the internet. Every stupid joke. Every naked woman. Every episode of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia.

I don’t know which hurts worse—my eyes, my ass or my wrist from clicking the mouse all day. My eyes hurt so bad they’re sore all the way up inside my head. So probably my eyes.

* * *

On days like today, I wish I was in a coma so I’d have an excuse for not accomplishing anything.

* * *

I saw this thing online called “Cubicles Suck” or something and so I thought, Hey, I should check this out. On his webpage, the guy is sitting there whining about working in his cubicle, but then he’s got pictures and it’s like this ginormous Taj Mahal of cubicles.

I always thought cubicles, by definition, were the tiny little three-sided boxes that we have at work with not even enough room to turn to the side without conking our knees—two feet wide and two feet deep. This guy online had shelves and filing cabinets and a whole bunch of other crap in there. He even took pictures of himself all stretched out, sleeping on his cubicle desk.

We can’t even put our feet up without getting PINed. If I could ever contort myself enough to lie down at work, they’d boot me out of there so fast I’d leave a vapor trail.

I feel totally cheated.

* * *

I also saw this thing about this Heaven’s Gate cult from however many years ago. Those people were freaks. Cutting off their junk and wrapping plastic bags around their heads so they could hitch a ride to heaven on some comet. That’s hardcore insane.

The thing is, though, I think I’m actually kind of jealous of them. I would love to believe in something—anything—so much that I’d happily cut off Sir Lancelot for it. Even if it is something totally batshit crazy like that. I mean, if you believe in something enough to chop your own balls off, you have to really believe in it. And I think that would be awesome. It just seems like life would be so much easier and making decisions would be so much easier and everything would be so much easier if you really really believed in something.

Instead of being constantly worried about money and worried about getting fired and wondering if I’ll ever get laid ever again, all I’d have to do is whatever the Great Comet wanted me to do. Every decision I make would be like, Is this what I should do, knowing that the earth is about to be recycled or whatever? And I’d actually have the willpower to follow through on it—that’d be awesome, too.

Still, I hope that whatever or whoever I believe in never wants me to chop off my junk. That would suck.