The Devil's Advocate

Nothing ever happens here. Or at least I never notice when something does. Most of the time I sit quietly at my desk, pretending to be working, waiting for the time to pass.

Sometimes I run a little slide-show of the men I slept with in my head, to try and get the time to move a bit more quickly, it helps for a little while, not for long. I guess I should sleep with more people if I'm planing to continue working here.

People come to my desk, they talk, they complain, they praise my work, they tell me the company might be going under and we all might lose our jobs. I look at them, eyes full of understanding, I nod my head, smile a little condescending smile and keep looking trough the gallery of cocks in my head.

I don't care if this place goes under, I don't care if I'm going to lose this job, but I can't really say that I don't care about the fact that we are being audited.

It brings a breath of fresh air to the office. I enjoy seeing my boss's sweat, forming slowly on his top lip every time he gets a call from the law society. I relish the subtle traces of terror in our Director Solicitor's voice as she asks about double-triple billing clients. I enjoy our little game, where she acts surprised about the whole thing, and I shrug my shoulders and smile helplessly as I say: "It's always been done that way" I make a whole show of pretending to think she didn't know about it. We rehearse this little play every couple of days since the auditors started calling, and each time I wonder does she believe they've set up hidden cameras all over the office so she sees this as a live performance, or is she just rehearsing for the time when this thing gets to court.

It's all great fun, but when I take a step back, it makes me feel a bit uncomfortable watching them worry and squeal and suffer like that, and not feeling even a trace of compassion, being only slightly amused by the whole thing. It makes me feel like a bit of a sociopath, cool and calm and slightly amused when faced other people's misery.  I didn't used to be like that, seeing homeless people, and lost kittens and sad old people used to make me cry before I started working here. Now, I'm as cold and hard as a rock, I guess it makes me a a pretty good lawyer, but I don't think it was worth it.

A Bartender's Tale

I'm a bartender. Seemed like a decent enough job when I was starting. Pour a few drinks, listen to a few stories, go home - nothing too special.

Not as easy as it sounds. The bar goes with you. It starts slowly, you don't really notice it at first, but the ghosts of the drunken idiots leaning on your bar still stay with you, no matter where you go.

I can hear them in my voice every time I make a stupid sexist remark, I can feel them moving my feet as I start dragging them instead of lifting them up properly when I walk. I can hear their voices whispering in my head, every time I feel like bragging about a car, a bike, a girl I fucked.

I try to fight it, I wash my hair, wash my face, scrub my body every time I come home. I air the smell of cigarettes out of my clothes, I read good books, I try to talk to my friends, I try to think properly. But the drunken twits are right there, I can feel them looking trough my eyes, I can hear their stupid comments ringing in my head as I try to think properly.

I can see my friends slowly drifting away, they look at me and they don't understand, I look at them and a part of me can still relate to them, but there is this other part, this huge place inside me filled with the jabber of the alcohol infested idiots screaming in my head.

And then, there is she, the one I love, the one that loves the part of me that is still me, not the bar. She looks at me silently, her eyes full of understanding, full of sorrow, unlike my friends, she knows exactly what is going on, she is waiting for me to stop, to change back to being myself, but I can't the bar is calling for me. I need those idiots, I need them so I can feel superior, so I can feel at home. I can see her tears forming slowly as she bows her head trying to say "I'm leaving you" She can't say it, and I know I should do it instead, but I'm too selfish, to terrified by the thought of losing her, so I just stand there, silent, hoping she will give me a chance to get back to being myself.

And she does, and I do nothing.

The Daily Routine

Nothing ever changes: every day I set my foot on the subway escalator, and I feel the first wave on nausea  coming on. My head starts to pulsate and I feel my legs shaking. The stairs keep going up, and all I want to do I jump off, go back into the comforting darkness of the subway. Yet, I manage to hold on and get out into the street.

The sun is shining, mocking me. I feel more and more sick with every step I take toward the office. I stare firmly into the door, head held high, trying not to show the despair I feel.

I would take a deep breath before I enter, but I can not, my lungs are frozen, I crave for a cigarette and a shot of tequila.

I push the door. I force myself to smile at the receptionist, my lips hurting. I say: "Hi" She smiles, I wonder if her lips hurt too.

I get to the elevator without crying, thank God for that, I hear a Ding as the doors open, I shudder. I walk in, look in the mirror, no sign of the pain I feel.

Ninth floor, I get out. Glass everywhere, blue skies, makes me want to crawl into a whole. I walk up to my desk, leave my coat on the hanger, go firmly and slowly towards the bathroom, careful not to show the rush I feel.  I lock my self in and throw up quietly.

Another working day has begun.

What I Imagine Working in a Factory Would Look Like

You don't have to work at a place for 20 years to hate it passionately, although, I'm sure it helps. There is absolutely nothing I like about it.

I started working in this factory only 20 days ago, and yet I have managed to develop a deep and profound hatred towards everything and everyone here.

I hate the big steel gate, the road full of potholes, the grey walls, grey skies, grey smoke coming out of grey chimneys, grey coffee they try to sell as black, the grey smiles on the grey faces of employees wearing grey clothes.

I hate the noise of the blenders and blowers, the strong smell of chemicals, names of which I can not remember, the plastic protective equipment that doesn't protect you form anything, the sudden waves of nausea I feel every time I walk into the hall and inhale the venomous air that fills it.


I hate the team leaders, I hate the way they smile as they dump more and more work on us, I hate the way my heart skips a beat when I think they are not happy with my work, I detest my co-workers for the fact that they work in this shit hole and I despise myself even more for doing the same.

So why am I still here? I need the money.

Nothing Would Change if I Was an Artist

I'm a painter. They say I'm a pretty good one. Everyone thinks it's so great. Giving your life to art. 

Well it's not. I'm fucking miserable. I could't produce an original piece if the future of the entire planet depended on it.

Every once in a while I get a stroke of inspiration, and I don't eat, or sleep, or shit until I finish the bloody thing, or until I faint.

Then it's done, and I move away from it, and I see it's a complete piece of unoriginal, condescending, consumer friendly shit. 

I wish to burn it, but my greedy wife says we have to eat, and so I give it to my greedy dealer to sell. 

I think the two of them could spend eternity fucking each other's brains out if they weren't to obsessed by their love for money to really care about sex.

Anyway, the bastard sells my little unoriginal, good-for-nothing babies, the high school cheer leaders and quarterbacks of art - all of them pretty, sterile, vapid and dumb, and I sit in the corner watching the smart kids, the outcasts, the artists - envying them so much it hurts.