Suicide in a Cloudy Font

Pencil lines everything looks and feels official. Everything looks and feels official and billable.
Somebody at another desk behind the wall said:
"Thank God for computers, I can't imagine how loud it was to work at night on a typewriter".
Yeah I guess.
I'm sorry I don't really have any idea what the hell I do now.

That number is always too low.
That number is never enough.
That number means I can't do things.
I guess I have no concept. I guess I should have thought ahead.
I guess I should want things more.
I guess I don't have as much time as I thought.

You should have heard her go off.
She didn't really.
But she probably wanted to.
She probably wanted to stand up and tell me to get my shit together.
Or get the fuck out.
Maybe not that dramatic.

But everything has stalled.
Engine revs. but there's no jolt.
I think the secret of being negative is to get everyone around you to slap on their most positive face.
Tell you everything is going to be fine.
Not to worry.
Not stress about things.

Life is a fluffy cloud.
At least it should be.
What's the fucking problem?
Well, there's problems don't get me wrong.
There's serious problems.
But what's the fucking problem?
There's ways around all that.
Nobody is happy.
Nobody is content.
Nobody is secure.

Pencil me in for next Tuesday.
Pencil me in for a lunch.
Once the check clears.
Once that other check hits the banks.
Once I check my balance.
Everyone is so loud.
Maybe we should just stay in.
Everyone's got something to say about something.
Maybe we could just watch a movie.
Escapism is hard to break out of.

So I'm not sure.
I'll have to figure something out I guess.
or not.
I'll keep going until I don't.
And then what?
Well I'll worry about that then, thanks.
Life's just a big fluffy cloud.
Or at least it should be.