The Cubicle Diaries: Part I

Oh the pangs of growing old.

After I completed my first year at Boston College, my parents deemed it necessary that I forego having a social life or, more importantly, selfishly massive napping sessions in exchange for working a full-time job.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Some of your social lives probably don’t start until 7 at night anyway, so why would working during the day have any effect on that? As an avid runner and golfer – or more suitably termed, “hacker” – I am most active between the hours of 10 and 4... not incredibly conducive to an 8 to 5 shift.

Working full-time is part of growing up, I get that. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Especially when my dad is retired and my mom only works part-time – such a gear-grinder.

“Thankfully,” my brother Johnny is the head honcho at a company, so he “oh so graciously” saved me from Market Basket by offering me a job. While I’ll admit I’d rather be here than at a grocery store collecting carriages, I’ll also admit that I’d rather be in bed at 8 in the morning than in this Twilight Zone-esque hallway.

ANYWAY, I digress.

gavel2This past Monday was my first taste of the full-time grind, and it went a little something like this:

6:00 AM – 6:07: Completely unresponsive to my alarm.

6:07 – 6:10: Try to simultaneously shake off both the weekend and this god forsaken wool blanket. Who made this? Like, who thought it would be a good idea to make a blanket this heavy?

6:10 – 6:20: Get in shower; fall asleep in shower; wake up confused in shower.

6:20 – 6:40: Question my gender orientation as I struggle to choose between a purple shirt and a blue shirt.

6:40 – 7:00: Experience the foodgasm that is my dad’s pancakes. While he may work fewer hours than I do, I’ll take this fluffy and syrup-covered trade-off any day of the week.

7:00 – 8:00: Get in the car and Ermahgerd this whole traffic and commuting thing is a punch in the face.

7:47: Get caught singing “Mirrors” by Justin Timberlake. Continue singing because yes, I looked and sounded just like this.

8:00 – 5:00 PM: Contemplate suicide, excluding my lunch hour from 12:00 – 1:00.

5:00 – 6:15: Cars should be outlawed.

6:15 – 7:00: Full body embrace of the living room couch.

7:00 – 9:00: Eat, shower, and force myself to go to bed before 2:00 AM for the first time in weeks.

My job consists of me sitting in front of a computer for eight hours a day and scrolling through Microsoft Excel spreadsheets. Scrolling. I am glad that thirteen years of education has prepared me for an entire summer of scrolling. Thank goodness for Calculus’s derivatives and Biology’s morphologies, or else I’d never be able to scroll from left to right across a spreadsheet.

The purpose of my scrolling is to search for dates in the month of April on which certain maintenance procedures occurred at different sites around the country. I then check to see what facilities were worked on and why. I tally up the cost of all the work done at a certain site and then create an invoice to bill the manager for the work we did there.

Now if that last paragraph hasn’t convinced you to defenestrate yourself as quickly and as violently as possible, then I don’t know what will.

Have no fear though, for this blog is not about how much I am billing Jim Watson down in Virginia for his requests for generator and HVAC repair work. Because let’s be honest...

Courtesy of Flickr/fisherjen90

Courtesy of Flickr/fisherjen90

If you’re still depressed about The Office’s recent finale, then have no fear. This blog will serve as a diary of sorts, documenting my weekly travails in an office full of an incredibly diverse group of characters – much like our old favorites Angela and Dwight.

Take Anna, for example. Anna is in her late forties and was hired the same day as myself to do the same work as me except for a different region of the United States. I can tell she already hates me, and I don’t blame her. She’s doing the same exact thing as a 19-year-old college sophomore and is only getting paid slightly more per hour. That must be why she always grimaces at me when I walk by. Or maybe that’s just the menopause.

Or take Nina, the 300-pound, chain-smoking alcoholic that’s the first person to the loading dock each morning because, and I quote, “those other pussies in the office can’t lift as much as I can.”

...This summer’s going to be a doozy.

This blog and all of its subsequent entries are and will be completely satirical in their intent. All names have been changed.

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