Welcome to Popular Ink's INDELIBLE KITCHEN.

Now get the hell out!

Really, we would love to have you stay but we would feel rude about that as we have left. As in gone, defunct, kaput. We aren't here anymore. Sometimes, when it's late and we are worried about dying, we do believe in reincarnation. So, maybe we will live again. We'll let you know if that happens.


II. More from the Essay on What Used to Be My Really Hard Life

So this is the next installment. If you haven't read the beginning, go down about three posts and there you will find it--complete with typos. Nothing like putting your stuff out there to help you see your errors. Anyhow, I promised myself I would press on with this essay (which is totally true, by the way--even though my family members will take me to task for later parts of the essay--which are not in this short and badly punctuated installment.) This is a short entry but it ends with Masturbator/Flasher foreshaddowing which should encourage you to wait breathlessly for the next installment. While you wait, you could practice your Masturbator/Flasher breathing. Really, I am digressing now and just repeating Masturbator/Flasher . . .

Ultimately, I started getting to work later and later. The windowless room that I shared with a perky intern from Berkley seemed to grow smaller, the black plastic clock on the wall larger. I finished the article on Rochester and it was finally published. I learned how to operate the copy machine and made copies for anyone who wanted them when the secretary wasn’t around. While making copies might seem a step down from writing articles for IBM Digest or for the Corporate Headquarters news letter, it got me away from the tiny office and the clock. Then I got to write a scintillating piece on a company basket ball team. I continued to work on the PC Junior manual, but mostly, I continued to watch the clock on the wall. Three months passed.

During my life outside of the office building, things happened. I wrecked my lemon yellow Dodge Horizon in a snow storm and had to start taking rides from other interns and young workers at IBM. I moved away from the Yonkers secretary and the hairy guys with necklaces and into an apartment in Hells Kitchen with my willowy, blue-eyed boyfriend. I began to counter-commute to IBM’s corporate head quarters in White Plains from Manhattan. I started to show up to work later and later. No one seemed to notice.

Then I had a series of small maladies, bladder infections and colds, which I milked. I began to miss work entirely—first one day a week and then two. I collected a good letter of recommendation and continued the charade of “working” at IBM until the occurrence of what I will call the Masturbator/ Flasher Incident.

No comments: