Can you guess what it is?
Usually, I have to rocket back and forth around work, I'm just that busy. To the casual observer I'm a streak of matted hair and muffled swearing.
I can naturally only keep up this momentum for so long and I am reduced to moving at average walking speed....
...then slow speed (and by which point my strength is waining to that of the average faun).
And lastly I finally succumb to fatigue and despondancy and wither and die like a gremlin exposed to sunlight.
Fortunately, I make it to a cup of coffee in time to prevent instantaneous liquification.
And thus the cycle begins anew.
This is the thing, I'm not another one of those beret-wearing, menthol-smoking types who absolutley has to have coffee among the other so called finer things in life. I actually DON'T like it. I really don't, once a friend insisted I try this obscenley expensive filter coffee on the basis that it was the best in creation. I still maintain the belief that it tasted like someone had poured hot water into an ash tray. Hence why I included the bad taste in mouth in the above graph. However, I read once that proper coffee addicts don't have time for real coffee - I think there might be some truth in this, because I need to down a gallon of tarry, cafeine sludge to make it through my working day.
Yes, this is a comprehensive Bird's eye view of the stockroom I inhabit. Importantly there is rarely room for two thirds of a person in the ailes due to all the massing piles of crap we get in.
So, with a stockroom as densely packed as this I have to squeeze through everything to get anywhere, I'm a skinny guy but even I have trouble sometimes. And then there's the pallets of crap I have to pull along after me. Sometimes it seems like I'm the only one who has a problem in this respect, or even any problems at all. In the great H.G Wells novel of my job the majority of my co-workers are elois, swanning about in the bright lights of banal ignorance whereas I'm something of a morlock. skulking about in the stockroom's bitter realism. Sometimes I wonder if maybe I'll get lucky and kidnap one of them and spit out the bones later.
But suffice to say I need a cup oof cofee to keep it together in the face pof such persistant annoyances.
It does. With a fresh supply of cheap coffee in my bloodstream I'm able to return to hustling the proverbial streets of my work like the crack-addled prostitute that I am.
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