After some precursory
Googling something-ing revealed my “Cubicle fatigue” title wasn’t the snowflake I hoped I’d coined, I decided to turn elsewhere for my titular inspiration. And if I’m going to get derivative, I may as well turn to the Original , the Bard of Bitter Drones himself, Fyodor Dostoevsky. I don’t think he’d be surprised to learn how relevant Notes from the Underground has stayed or how ubiquitous its sentiment has become in the twenty-first century. We’re destined to keep matching then raising it, too, especially if there are any foreboding truths to be found in science fiction.
I type this from a cubicle of my very own, which is stuffed inside a massive set of buildings, which are tucked into a swampy suburb, smack atop the habitats of not just a few noisy boars, brazen alligators, gorgeous deer, and adorable marsh rabbits. And I’m typing my way out, to be sure. Just as I wrote my way out of other places and feelings and circumstances. I slip sentences into my notes throughout each workday, ideas for entries pasted between sets of competing soda beverages and lists of zany alternative plot lines to the commercials in my queue. I briefly leave the premises (on the offest of off-chances I’ll ever derive an income from this) to make private posts during my lunch break, ill-prepared for the reality of publishing anything unfinished but growing more and more and more frantic at the thought that I might let a paycheck and a routine overcrowd an urge to fill all my creative impulses and then some, to chisel some letters and words into art that imparts some meaning into these bones and this blood.