Having sufficiently completed my assigned tasks from my assigned oversized closet, I closed my work bag with a short sigh. The elevator doors closed with it's unchanging chime and began it's unusually slow descent... landed I swung my heavy leg over my bike and began to pedal home... alone... in the cold wet rain... mostly uphill...
(Tales from a Melodramatic Office Worker)
My face burned with the shame of betrayal - yes for I was betraying my fellow man. Supporting the very corporations and bourgeoisie that enslave both you and I! For that I am sorry... What now of my dreams of a new world? Where now is my revolutionary spirit? Had I traded my soul for... for this? I stared at it in my hands.
It was my precious - I held it carefully, oh yes very carefully and with both hands. I repositioned my fingers to take full advantage of it's radiant warmth. With closed eyes I inhaled deeply of it's rich aroma - a glorious wave of bliss came over me that, albeit momentarily, appeased my guilty conscience. It was my medium double double, my precious Tim Hortons.
(Confessions of a Conflicted Marxist Office Worker)
