we existed like parasites in the shared large intestine of a dying beast. aimlessly devouring a mass of inconsequence from feeding troughs filled with impotent directives from management. limping feebly towards some merciful demise. sometimes unable to determine who was responsible for consuming which pocket of strategic rot. or if they were meant to be consumed at all. perhaps left for the next sorry fuck to take our place under the stream of dehydrated piss and platitudes gushing from the screens we worshipped at. a salvation inducing waterfall of failure served conveniently into agape mouths with unbearable precision.

we ate to remember. we ate to forget. we ate because chewing was better than not chewing. and sometimes there was some vague illusion of flavor. or that the mechanical motion of our jaw would prompt a careless applause from someone whose marriage was collapsing for the sake of the company.

killing each other. living off of each other. breeding versions of ourselves that we couldn’t recognize anymore. and watching them eat and shit. wondering when one of us would finally die. so the other could too.

we grilled memories on the fluorescent lights and watered the plastic office plants with fluid pouring from holes. molting yesterday’s regret in agile meetings regarding reheated efficiency tactics from someone who succumbed to the quiet slaughter during the last corporate rebrand. or the rebrand before that rebrand.

we traded cubicles for basements and bedrooms. the nameless dread endured. eager to impregnate the floorboards and bedsheets of houses. we didn’t come or go from misery anymore. there wasn’t much motion left at all. existing as a daily sacrifice that would provide blood for the wheels of someone else’s chair. and the faces broadcast through premium office networking software inhabited our dreams with the same cruel ubiquitousness required to climax into middle management.   

there were sheet cakes during the good times though. I remember those sheet cakes. illuminated by the unreciprocated orgasm of a workstation orgy. under the trembling hands of the office administrator tasked with celebrating something unworthy of even the modest cafeteria offering. we’d watch the butcher’s blade deflate the bounty of any lingering hope. and eyes fill with tears at the beauty of their life crumbling in unison with cake under a dull knife.

crumbs of funfetti gracing cracked lips to commemorate a life squandered. 

some years we changed company colors and exchanged logos or fonts. other years we sat unmoving, in the “keep warm” crockpot we worked from. hoping the water would evaporate and we could feel the air again.   

nonetheless. it was something to do. for all of those years it was something to do. some days passing quick. some years passing quicker. we met people who we called family. at least for a moment. strangers who were also encumbered with indifferently manufacturing digital waste. which functioned as adhesive for our flesh.

thinking about those moments. those people. we sympathized with the parasite we existed with. and its ability to both deplete and replenish. in those moments our shared suffering was cherished.

most days we couldn’t remember the last time we felt. and that maybe our nerves and limbs were incapable of such an indulgence anymore. anesthetized enough to persist for the sake of it. because the insect toil had grown familiar. and the lens of the camera sometimes smoothed our features. or paved over eyes that deviated from the screen.

and there was comfort in waiting to be flaccidly carved off by the scalpel that had pried so many wounds before us. somehow fueled by the irrevocable dismantling. the muted incision. and the eternal meetings. and the numbness in a blinking cursor. that paid no attention. to the years lost.

a skin tag on the sagging ass of corporate america.