BNdotCommunist

The office I work in is in a building that takes up an entire city block. The company I now work for takes up an entire floor of that building, an entire block. It is a daunting walk from one side of the office to the other, from even my cubicle to the bathroom. It is a job gotten through my new temp agency, me finally abandoning my old one after they offered me one shitty job too many, to the point that it was insulting. It is the Website of a massive chain bookstore and I work in the accounting department doing boring, fairly mindless tasks. I started yesterday and so far have no real complaints. The location is ideal and there is all the free coffee my coffee-loving self can handle. Hopefully by working full-time for a while, a couple months maybe, I can get myself better positioned financially, pay off some bills, not constantly be broke, perhaps go visit people across the country and perhaps across the Atlantic, and also perhaps have some money saved in case I want to move, somewhere else in New York or somewhere else entirely.

My new room barely gets any sunlight and so I sleep much later than I would like to, lack the spirit that the sun used to fill me with in the mornings in my old bedroom, and so another plus to this job is that it forces me to get out of the habit of being lazy, to wake up earlier.

Boring jobs have another plus, a plus that I enjoyed so much today and which I was so grateful for, that being the ability to daydream all day long. The tasks are simple enough not to occupy all of your attention and the quiet of an office environment is great for uninterrupted reflection, for thinking about things, reliving recently lived moments. You find yourself horny in the morning, still tired, recalling the body of your friend that you slept with this weekend, his patch of hair on his chest, the thought of Matt's patch of chest hair intruding on this daydream, the realization that the patch of chest hair is similar on both boys, that perhaps this has something to with the attraction to both, perhaps, or perhaps just a coincidence. And because there are eight hours to get through, these thoughts can be teased out, chased in any direction they will lead you, thinking about life and fiction and their relationship, this being sparked by reading the new Roth novel, thinking of that boy, this boy, of electricity and the Internet, of dancing, of Tom Petty lyrics, on and on, more time with my own thoughts than I have gotten in so long.

With Ben B. tonight, mentioning this satisfaction I was finding, warning me, he joked that I better have a good imagination, that the well of thoughts would dry up soon.