Well, I just got my paycheck. And perhaps not needless to say, I have died inside once again.
When I first saw Office Space, I thought it was just a funny satire; that office life couldn't possibly be that bad, that soul-killing. Ah, the naivete of youth.
Working in an office is shitty enough, what with the harsh lighting, tacky furniture, and hollow niceties that get thrown around like insert colorful, potentially offensive simile here. But take into account that you have to deal with bosses that track your every move--leaving you in a constant state of alert--the paltry salary--a sginificant portion of which gets confiscated by the government-- and the overall feeling that you're trapped in a ceaseless void of anonimity and suddenly torching your office building doesn't seem like such a bad idea.
In short, I need to get out. Not just from this particular job, but from working these kinds of jobs. I don't mind being underappreciated, but once you start fucking with my paychecks, shit turns serious. I need to get out or someone's going to have to take a pencil to the scrotum.
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