Another day, another chicken finger and milkshake. The rain poured down in buckets; I could hear it. It beat against the cinder-block building. My office had no windows, so I could only hear the rain, not see it. My office was drab and painted a strange, life-sucking yellow. The lighting was brain cancer-inducing. Forms to complete. More forms. The forms never stop. Check here. Check there. Another meaningless form.
Time to eat. I eat Popeye's every day, and I have grown large and unhealthy, and my clothes are tight and dirty, smeared with grease from Popeye's. Give me the chicken strip meal with mashed potatoes and gravy, damn it. I have to say damn it, because it, the chicken strips and mashed potatoes and gravy, along with the horrible lighting in my office, are slowly pushing me into hell forever.
Back in my office I dunk my crispy, salty tenders into the gray gravy and I can feel the gravy coursing through my veins. The gravy is inside me and all over me. I guzzle a Dr. Pepper, dreading for my lunch hour to be over, because then I will go back to the endless forms.
That night I decide to go to McDonald's to get a chocolate milkshake. My life is so empty and without form that I need sweets and fats to keep me alive, even though, at the same time, they are killing me. I suck down the chocolate milkshake.
