50 Morbid Thoughts I’m Having At Work

The unblinking stare of my skull underneath the thin bloody sheath of my face managing a grimace, if only granted an expression.

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  1. Applying yellow highlighter to my corneas so that my cubicle seems full of my own and my co-workers’ urine, that I am submerged in it, and witnessing the penultimate moments before my drowning.
  2. Paper shredder shredding backwards in time, spitting out whole pieces of paper on which audit-worthy deceptions corroborated by my employers have been printed.
  3. Every .pdf alias on my desktop catching on fire as a form of minor hell.
  4. Clamping mini-binder clip to foreskin to mimic the sensation of a rabid “office weasel” trying to chew off my dick, at which it is partially successful, as evidenced by shreds of dick on the carpet.
  5. I am a 36 years old, half my life, as I don’t plan on living past age 72.
  6. Brown UPS signature pen being equally brown in UPS delivery man’s anus.
  7. Inadvertent Blackface after Dell™ 5110cn black toner cartridge surrealistly puffs all over my face, by which guilt-ridden Caucasians are dismayed yet silenced.
  8. An uncoiled paper clip slowly guided into Bill Gates’ urethra every time “end task” doesn’t actually end the task of trying to unfreeze Microsoft Outlook.
  9. Finding out my calendar was a lie, that every day has been Monday, and will forever be.
  10. A flaccid penis dipped in scalding coffee in order to wake it.
  11. The unblinking stare of my skull underneath the thin bloody sheath of my face managing a grimace, if only granted an expression.
  12. Every pixel on my screen as a tightly packed maggot squirming, offering light.
  13. Going home to clothing catalogs still addressed to my ex-wife in the mail; 3-day old leftover pizza eaten cold; dispirited masturbation; noisy upstairs neighbor speaking in indecipherable foreign language; falling asleep in front of Dancing with the Stars, waking up to Jimmy Fallon’s salary-swollen face.
  14. Neon green Post-it® notes with inconsequential work passwords written on them falling off and disappearing, not being able to log in to any account, but life oddly remaining exactly the same.
  15. My happiest moments in life were as an alcoholic.
  16. Cafeteria 3-Bean Chili made out of the human — one recently deceased Oscar Escobar — who lovingly made it, and accidentally fell in, henceforth called “Oscar Chili.”
  17. I may have Reticent Tourette’s, cussing out everyone and everything in my silent cowardly mental hole.
  18. My antioxidant green tea anthropomorphically tea-bagging me, somehow.
  19. The chronic smell of instant ramen in the microwave slowly permeating through my pores, until I too smell that way.
  20. An imperceptibly uncapped Sharpie marker in boss’s office causing him, via prolonged “sniffing” neurological effects, to become attracted to me.
  21. Te  e t h    f  a ll in g    o  ut   an  d     h it   t  i n   g    t h  e    s p a  ce    b a     r.
  22. Ancient folder titled “New Folder” containing excel spreadsheets of ancient figures, once new, suddenly requested by severe and irrational co-worker ASAP, right at the moment I perceive diarrhea.
  23. A pop-up window popping out at the same time my hernia does.
  24. A dozen donuts, in an oily pink cardboard box in the break room, exuding pinched anuses by their very swollen shape.
  25. Piercing my nose with a staple remover.
  26. “COPY” stamp stamping every page of a 500-page ream of copy paper until running out of ink, melting, fusing into my hand, forming an alien-like knob.
  27. A useless boner.
  28. Justin Bieber, Sean Combs, and Hugh Hefner on a yacht somewhere.
  29. The person who is to stab me twenty-five times to death twenty-five years from now being conceived after the twenty-fifth pelvic thrust in the mail room this very moment.
  30. A naked 240 lbs. janitor sitting in my chair at 8:13 p.m. during his “owl shift” pleasuring himself with a Clorox disinfecting wipe.
  31. I have been eating lunch at the same cafeteria for seven years.
  32. Someone has ejaculated into my clam chowder at some point.
  33. Spotify playlist “Morrissey” playing on volume low, somewhat forgotten, in the background for +4 hours until suicide seems like a non-dramatic answer to chronic depression.
  34. Huge pile of neglected dust under desk as dead bride’s wedding gown.
  35. Paris Hilton, Mary-Kate Olsen, and Kim Kardashian getting their nails done while complaining about it.
  36. 16GB USB-drive hypothetically containing every positive feeling I’ve ever had being only 0.017% full.
  37. Snorting dead skin cells found under my keyboard.
  38. Guy standing in front of tank in Tiananmen Square as me, except in place of the tank is my porn collection from the ’90s.
  39. A useless heart.
  40. Brother P-touch label maker spitting out ~30-35 OSSIFIED LUNGS labels.
  41. Bi-weekly paycheck direct deposited into checking account, from which I am able to finance my consumerist addiction consisting of food binges, unnecessary “more” shoes, and the perennial iTunes download of mediocre bands with great hair.
  42. A jar of eye-crust balanced on monitor as metaphor for dissonant vision and spiritual blindness.
  43. Leaving paper jam originating from “manual feed tray” of Ricoh C3501 copier inside the dumb beast, hitting “copy” over and over again until it explodes, sending beige plastic shrapnel into my neck.
  44. Co-workers suddenly becoming co-wankers, but not first washing their hands.
  45. Sentient carpet under my feet knowing I want to cook my father’s face in a frying pan like an omelet.
  46. Building rectangular Bauhaus-y igloo out of reams of Office Max copy paper, moving inside, and being discovered two months later shriveled into a piece of dehydrated salmon.
  47. Two black birds seen flying outside my window, one of which will be raped by the other in a leafless tree.
  48. “Msg Wait” button on Nortel phone blinking with significance the ominous message left by a senile lady who thinks I’m her son, and me believing her.
  49. Wrapping an entire 27.7 yd roll of Scotch Magic™ tape around my penis until it’s technically a choad.
  50. Publishing this article to both console and enable my histrionic disorder, compulsively refreshing page for new comments, only to be corrected by people with good grammar and bad moods. Thought Catalog Logo Mark
image – Tristan Ferne