Lamentation and Description at work

A dinosaur chews its way through the neck of a wounded plant eater, lying utterly at the beast’s mercy. A lei, received a dozen months prior, hangs from a crook in the swivel-seat, rolling office chair. Hunter S. Thompson looks down from the wall, benevolent, ever-suspicious, my eyes track movement in the hallway between my cube and that adjacent, occupied by a man I would have died next to, had we been born in Sparta, twenty five hundred years before, a man whom I would entrust with my life, and who hopefully thinks the same of me. It is the single young woman, so transparent in her attempts to manipulate those around her.
I keep her at arms length, allowing my caution and attraction to show in equally small measure, but enough to keep her guessing. She has a luscious behind, seriously nice piece of tail, if she is trying to play everyone off against each other, the married ones in particular.
An apple seed sprouts, off to my right, in green artificial sponge I received from a dear friend and better sister, during tumultuous times, its once vibrant flowers faded, long since trashed. As I cannot tend a garden at home, might as well flex that verdant thumb at work.

I coil the rubber sting around four fingers, interlaced, its fluid filled ball on the business end dangling just below the hand. With a flick of the wrist, it flies out, the string unfurling, extending five feet horizontally to within an inch of the main slacker’s face. The move I practiced for a year, with heavier keys on a shorter string, whilst walking home, up Cortez hill, coming up empty handed again, form a night out in this doubtfully finest of cities, looking too hard for some prune tang. He is the main slacker, watching TV, at his desk, with his boss standing behind him, not caring in the least if he’s reprimanded.
Not my problem. I do have to look into getting a laptop, though, can’t stand the immobility of the desktop, don’t really value processor speed or graphics card.

A jar of peanut butter and a few slices of bread are stacked on the left, out of sight of all but the most persistent and invasive visitors to my fine cube, this outpost of mine in vast Cubeland. For I know that its borders do not end at the walls of this office, but extends far into every other stifling and soul-strangling arena in the corporate domain. I yearn to escape, to throw down these walls, to mount the heads of my adversaries on the walls, warning future generations of the fate of those who would cross my path. ENOUGH

All I speak of, it seems, is this place. Those confines, where I learned so much, honed my skills, sacrificed so much time, so many young years, drained out. It finds itself into my head, my dreams, I have friends there, but must maintain those outside as well, ENOUGH.