His DayMichael Gushue
Conrad sits at his desk, fluoresced by routine, the arthritis of organization. His annual evaluation is a pineapple bomb, ticking. At lunch, Conrad is a bundle of celery boiled soft. Conrad takes one for the home team, the long halls and the bustling arsenals of the work place. He consumeth the wonderbread of anxious toil, networks the small vexations of the heart. Dead from the ankles up, Conrad zombies the aisles of Kwik-E-Mart. Conrad returns to his lair. Immersed in the jacuzzi light of his flatscreen, he relaxes into homogeneity, diffidence, the small beer of american idolatry.
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