A dark homage to cubicle workers everywhere:
Cubicle Slave Manifesto
I am an office worker. I live a cookie cutter life where I punch in and punch out at the same time every day. Eight of my sixteen waking hours in a day are spent in my cubicle? What’s a cubicle you ask?
Similar to a jail cell, the cubicle is a confined space where I must spend my days toiling away. The cubicle is normally decorated in drab colours like grey or 70’s brown. There is a florescent light affixed below my hanging storage shelf, which casts an eerie glow like the fluorescent lamps of an abandoned hospital, made popular by many a horror flick.
I’m given the tools to do my job. I have a computer with a keyboard, mouse and monitor. The company has supplied an office calendar, but like all office supplies from the catalogue it has neither style or grace. It’s bland. That’s what they want the atmosphere to be. Bland.
No items are allowed in the cubicle warehouse that might provoke creative thought or independence. Let me explain. The cubicle warehouse is the inside of my office building. Floor after floor, row after row, the cubicles are neatly organized for optimum efficiency. The simplicity of the program is one that allows for maximum cubicles in minimum space. Navigating the cubicles is like that of a maze, random pathways reveal themselves as the corridors are traversed. I question whether they are in the same location from day to day.
A spaghetti bowl of wires navigates its way through the office. Sometimes in the floor, sometimes in the ceiling. It connects the cubicles to the bare necessities of office life. Power, telephone, and network.
I’m part of a system, a system that’s designed to generate revenue to line the pockets of some people that I will never meet. I work for a minimum wage so that I can provide a roof over my family and food on our table. I will never know the luxury of the fat cats who run the system. I’m merely a pawn, a slave to their cubicle containment system. They are my prison, and the cubicle my cell.
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