This is it. I've made it. I've got a job title that doesn't sound like self-pity on my CV and a season pass to the rail network of the modern office: Windows 7. A hot desk in an air-conditioned room. Light wood tables and swivel chairs. I can change where I sit every day, but I don't because no one else does. There are pods for brainstorming so long as you fill out the right form at least seven days in advance. A couple of weeks of paid escapism a year, pension contributions. In just 45 short years, I'll be all set to die. I'm a third of the way there, and now I'm on the home straight. What do I win?
It's 15.06. I got in 08.30. I've sent 15 emails, received six. I've had one Starbucks, one Costa and four coffees from a box which dispenses coffee-flavoured water. I was two hours late on my first day because somebody threw themselves in front of my train, a sign I'm taking to be a foreshadowing in the stage play that is my life - but my tardiness didn't matter because nobody has any idea what my job is anyway.
I'm the property of a massive FTSE 100 company which can afford to take on round numbers of people at regular intervals. In terms of dents in universes, we don't leave marks on carpets. If "everybody wants to change the world, but nobody wants to help with the washing-up", we are the washing-up, the used, discarded plates of life. A good company is just a designer sink. The guys at the top are a tiny, shiny slick of something which has oil-like properties. I'm the new kid at the bottom with the soggy bits of congealed onion.
I overheard a colleague responding to "How was your weekend?" with the response: "It was good, I changed my windscreen wiper blades". Don't be this guy. He earns a six figure salary, looks like a bullfrog, has a wife and children. Take it from me, he's not successful. He's a joke. I was so pissed off I had an overwhelming urge to tweet his answer. I joined Twitter and did. It didn't help. I'm still angry, but at least I'm angry with a Twitter account to show for it (@boringmansdiary).
Today I was behind him in the queue at Costa, and we got the same drink. More foreshadowing. I nearly ended it all with Chekhov's gun (Google it - I can't be bothered to explain). Is this it? I am part of an iteration. I have a job which can be described by a flow diagram, but hasn't yet been outsourced to a developing country or a computer.
It's not life to follow the footsteps of those who have been swept down the stream of least resistance like an earthworm in the rain. Life is difficult, and what you spend it creating should not be more valuable on paper than it is in pounds. Not unless you really have won the prize and your life is a stage play, theatrical and gripping. So from me and for me: do something. That's it, that's all.