my office is becoming like my bedroom in the 9th grade.

there are posters on the walls. photos of my friends.

and i never seem to leave it.

and i get sent to it often.

or rather, i send myself there. GO WORK, you soulless wonder! you empty hipster! you hack.

ah, hack the dreaded word. the word that brings up horrible connations (not to mention phleghm).

do you hack at a keyboard? or type clumsily. can you hack away at a piece of poetry till it resembles a "call 1-900-FREE for details"? most definitely. i have done it oh-so-many a time. of course, that's me deciding that my words are poetry, when in fact they could be mere rhyming disasters.

i have a masters in rhyming disasters. i have a phd in d-umb.

and so i sit in my faux-teenage room, with the cool poster on the wall that says i went to some music festival last summer with bands that no adult has ever heard of. and yet, i am an adult.

as i scream "I hate you, work!!" and slam the door.