Round the corner from BK, and you'll be on 13th street. This is the street where I work. You'll pass the Oakland Tribune building, one of the few real landmarks around there other than the huge City Center and state buildings in the other direction. They have a coffee shop now that charges yuppies more money than they should for a cup of joe, the price supposedly being justified because the coffee comes from Kenya or something. Personally, I think it tastes like ass, and I love a cup of seriously black coffee. This shit just tastes like syrup. They make a mean cup of tea, though.
We're just up the street from a heavily Asian area. There seem to be at least a few neat shops there, but I never go. We have a bigger and better Asian center near where I live. Sy and Aimee take Julia and I there sometimes to get bubble tea or check out the arbitrary stores. I keep meaning to go to see if they have the Okami soundtrack. Anyway, this is just past where I work. Immediately to my left is the liquor store where I buy a lot of everything. Too many cigarettes, sometimes the occasional bottle for use back home, and way too many Slim Jims.
Yeah. I love the place, but it's more or less guaranteed to be the death of me. Looking at it, you'd wonder how in the name of God someone could actually eat something that came out of it.
I've always wondered about Dr. Shabubu. There are a lot of people on my blacklist, but somehow I don't think he's going to give me quite the bang for my buck that my revenge demands.
Down, down we go. Where we stop... the basement. But we aren't there yet.
No shit, Sherlock.
You're getting warmer...
Why yes, I
am Que! How nice of you to notice. Fucking security system. Who do they think is going to invade? The worst incident we've ever had at our building is one time a homeless guy threw a milkshake at somebody. Okay, that's not entirely true. We've had guns, muggings, rapes, (none of our own people on the last, thankfully), and plenty of general harassment. But not much of it has happened inside the building, and we have 2 deputies on staff. They have guns. This just seems like a waste of money to me, but whatever.
And here we are, the basement, where I spend more than 170 hours every month. Ain't it grand?
Yeah, so this is what I "do." I stuff paper products into other, slightly larger paper products. I stack things. I unstack things. And I occasionally wander into the street and in the hopes I might get hit by a truck.
And here's a panoramic-ish thing of my desk. Cubicle. Whatever. The fucking box where they stick me and occasionally throw money in order to keep me from leaving. Pretty much all of the artwork is mine, and I pretty much only started drawing because of how unbelievably mind numbing my job is. I've filled up most of the available space, which may be why I don't draw that much anymore. I'm not sure.
Folding up post-it notes is, apparently, my new hobby. I have a large pile of them on my desk. I really don't know why. It's a bit hard to get a sense of just how huge this pile actually is.
A view from the top. You can see the Trib building from our roof. It's somewhat pleasant up there, but I tend to work my way to whatever corners I can find to get away from everybody. This is the place that makes me smoke too much because it gets me
out of the fucking
basement, and for some reason nobody complains when you do that while simultaneously killing yourself with cancer. But try to step out just for a breath of fresh air, and prepare to be screamed at.
And so ends the day. In the last hour, I generally go hide somewhere and wait it out, unless the boss has left early, in which case I spend time writing poetry and stuff for Overwritten.net. You know, here. Like that big
Dead Rising review you see posted over in the suggestions forum, which was written entirely on work time. Whoops.
So there you have it, a day in the life of Que.
