Office Space.

It is usually the lies which are actually evident and unanimous truths that are the most difficult to wring out. Somehow it is more impossible to admit to the cold, hard, façade than it is to conduct it. It’s inarguable that no one wants to be here, but let’s pretend that we do to get the fight and the will out of the way for the time being. Let’s play dress-up like we all did when we were younger – yes, even the boys – and present a fucked-up, mocking version of ourselves so that we are able to expertly hide the truth of our existence really to everyone else, even though we know all along that they are hiding it, too. Let’s let it get to the point of not knowing whether we’re hiding ourselves so well in the melancholy spectacle that we look like the real thing, or if we’ve just simply become the fake/real thing in the process of pretending to be it. Let’s slip paper piles of data under a door to suited men in our own, terrified way, but know deep in our guts that the men who are no better than ourselves are just as terrified in their guts, and that the entirety of our macabre existence has led up to this unspeakable feigned diminishment on both parties’ accounts. Let’s clap our hands together, speak gently, and all defer to someone who defers to someone else who defers to someone else – not because we mean it, but because we don’t know what else to do, and we’ve got to survive somehow, right? Let’s commit passive suicide by staring and smoking and faking not caring; tune in, drop out, and keep on keeping on. Let’s go home to the so-called luxuries that our passive suicide affords us, and watch other people live our dreams for us on forty-seven inch panels of neon and hate them for it. Let’s let paycheques try to massage our broken hearts at three o’clock in the morning, only to find that we’re as futile as an automobile without gasoline, and that our tanks are consistently bone dry.

It’s a competition between sanity and survival here, and it looks like survival is winning.