February 11, 2005

singing in the...insanity

i was describing to jim the brilliance of the mail-order pajama concept, but he wasn't nearly as enamored of the idea as i am. i tried to make him see. evidently, he's not very prone to flights of fancy. this is what came from those futile stabs at elucidation:


okay...
imagine.
you're at work
sitting in a cubicle
grey fuzzy walls, because that's what cubicles are made of,
bits of paper pinned to them, flickering computer screen, grey industrial desk, black stapler, picture of family...dog...whatever, small bendy plastic novelty figure for personality, coffee mug.
you're in your desk chair. also grey and fuzzy because, why destroy a perfectly good motif?
the chair swivvels, but doesn't lean back. cheap bastards.
you're sitting there swiveling back and forth absentmindedly, when, suddenly, someone comes by your 2 1/2-ft wide door opening. they hand you a manila folder, a couple legal-sized envelopes, and...a big brow package.
what could it be?
you open it, filled, for the first time in your day, with curiosity
and find, folded neatly into a perfect square
cerulean blue satin pajamas. the overhead fluorescent lighting catches playfully on the collar. inviting you. nap.
you turn, the desk, before so dull, so hard, so oppressive is suddenly inviting.
yes, you think. i could nap. but dare i?
yes, you have pajamas which you received in the mail. the rules of the universe no longer apply. you have received sleepware in the mail.
it is as if the man is telling you - go ahead.
the government, the man, the bureaucracy is giving you a giant thumbs-up. they delivered the damn things!
you slip on the pajamas, they fit! and so silky-smooth, you climb on top of your desk and nap.
the heavens part, a choir of cherubs begins to sing, your co-workers are oblivious, nymphs play about your desk chair and a gentle breeze, never before felt in a world of air-con and heavy, immobile high-rise windows, begins to blow.
a smile plays at the corners of your mouth, and you are happy.

he called me batshit crazy. i could never love a man who does not understand when he is caught in a creative cloudburst, and instead of singing, opens his umbrella of scorn. bastard. you get no pajamas.

(p.s. outside, it's actually raining. oh, yes.)

1 Comments:

At 7:40 AM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

Start a business. Your success will be a measure, among other things, of your idea's brilliance.

 

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