The Office by Emily Smith-Miller

I’m seriously looking for a thong in my shoulder bag at work. I forgot to put on panties today, if that tells you where my head is at. Also the fact that I know I have a thong in my shoulder bag at work should tell you something. Maybe everything. Maybe I actually expect too much from you, whoever you are, or aren’t. My nails are really chipped and worn down, and my hands shake over a cup of coffee with the word “LOVE” on it. I don’t love the office sludge, but it is a necessary evil to keep my head out of my ass. I think a cubicle says a lot about a person. That’s why I have lots of pictures and drawings and calendars and mugs and pens and crocheted coasters, all over my desk. Yesterday they made me move again. I transported everything, just the way I did last month and the month before that. Today I’m going to throw everything away. I’ve said this before; do not be fooled. Today. Nope, next month, when I move again. Why do we try so hard to convince ourselves we mean something? I say let me be anonymous: here lies the girl with the stuff in her cube. Did she have a name? Pack rat. Even my epitaph can be a punch line. That would be better than pretending I’m something, and knowing deep down in my little Grinch heart, that I’m nothing. But I still don’t have my underwear in the right place.

© 2012 Emily Smith-Miller

Emily Smith-Miller is a writer from Austin, TX. She is the editor and founder of the horror website The Carnage Conservatory, www.carnageconservatory.wordpress.com. She has two hellion pets, a cat named Sadie and a puppy named Finnegan Ulysses Jameson. She attended NYU for English and journalism and can be found at random corners of the internet.  She writes strange poems and bloody horror stories that you can read at www.emilysm737.wordpress.com. She loves werewolves, Vincent Price, and ABBA. She is ready for the zombie apocalypse

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