I took two ritalin this morning at work.  I find that it’s imperative to keep all 4 of my readers graphicly up to date with my lack of stable mental health due to my wonderfully corporate job, but at this point in my adventure we’ll call life; I’m two broken coffee mugs away from huffing computer cleaner in the supply closet with the accountants. And boy do I hate those accountants…

I’ve been researching Stockholm syndrome lately and have come to the conclusion that if and when the hostage crisis occurs, I would willingly pick up a gun and join their ranks, a la Patty Hearst.  One would argue this idea drastic; while I will adamantly argue you’ve never been a part of my chosen world: corporate. 

 There was a time I wore flowers in my hair, danced ‘til 5am on a Wednesday morning, drove to Vegas on a whim to place bets on the Superbowl; the general, laissez-faire, “20 something” lifestyle now known as genuine happiness.   7-11 for dinner? Ok!  All day “True Life” marathon on MTV? I’ve got popcorn and Snuggies! Recreating “Sex and The City” season four with your newly found childhood box of legos?  Sign me up!

Well, the flowers have died, I’m in bed by 10 on any given weeknight (fuck it- a lot of weekends too), and I’ve forgotten the warmth of the glittering Vegas skyline.  My Iphone is an appendage grown from fear; no longer used solely to face-stalk, but merely another portal into my soul sucking responsibilities of “assistant.”

I sold out to a promise of stability, responsibility, growth, and to even further depress you; stock options.  Yep, I am that girl.  Miss Sell-out.

I had every single intention of being the poster girl for “New Corporate” lifestyle when I signed my life away that fateful September day. I remember the phone call with my Dad ending in those five words all children crave to hear from their parents, “I am proud of you.” I remember that same day shopping trip with my beaming mom buying not only my “first day of real job outfit” that would “impress all of those important executives,” but also an entire new wardrobe consisting of my least favorite color- black. I bit my tongue.  I smiled and made the decision to try something new with a positive attitude, even if it meant not being able to wear glitter. They were proud and downright happy and DAMMIT; I was determined to keep them that way.  Maybe corporate wouldn’t be that bad?

HAAhahAHAHAHAhahahhahHAHaHAHAHAHAHHAHAhahAHHAHA

*sigh*

Wrong.

Hey Mom, guess who gets to scrub the carpet on her hands and knees with paper towels after her bosses coffee tantrums?  Hey Dad, guess who’s back in therapy and is still called Stacey after 2 LONG years of employment?  Hey world, guess who isn’t allowed to leave her desk for more than 16 seconds at any given time, solely in fear of the guaranteed verbal berating if a single telemarketer hits the boss man’s voicemail?  “Good mornings” are a thing of the past.  Apparently, the more people you try to humanize in the office with basic conversation not related to weather or office temperature, the more likely you’re deemed “eccentric”.

And forget eye contact; even in your clumsy stupor of tripping over your bosses printer chords during an investment committee meeting warrants a loud sigh from all 8 men at King Arthurs Table, but no eye contact.  You can feel your knees bleeding, the slight chance of an ego you had sorely exaggerated for the last 9 months is officially extinct, and the twenty minute morning debate over “thong” or “granny panties” under your new, transparent black tights is no longer relevant; they can all see your ass and you are not allowed to cry.  Not this time.  There is no crying in corporate.  Save that for the 4th floor bathroom stalls.

I’d love to continue on, really I would.  But I promised myself I would start posting on a regular basis.  And if that’s going to happen, I cannot spend three months thinking of how to finish a 10 paragraph blog post.  Glimmer- held.