Psychotic Reaction

I'm certifiable right now. Commit me, I can't take it anymore. The Bobs called me at home. I think I'm allergic to drop ceilings. And recessed fluorescent lighting. And CRT computer monitors, and grey/black flecked office carpeting, and desk caddies filled with pens. My black Swingline old-school stapler is mocking me. Large inkjet printers make me ill. Fax machines and copiers are making me nauseous. Saw Johnny Thunders hittin' a spike out in shipping - was I hallucinating that? I almost crushed my mouse in my hand today. Too weak. The institutional grey walls are sucking the strength from me. Why does it have to be so bright in here? Why do we have to use white paper with black ink? It's hurting my eyes. The multi-colored vinyl-coated paper clips that talk to me when they're lonely just aren't enough excitement for me. When I stare at my computer screen, I can see the blood moving through the capillaries in my eyeballs like little insects scurrying around when the light is turned on. My fingers are permanently curled to fit the 'home row' on my keyboard. The index fingers float around the keys trying to find the little ridges on the F and J keys, but the ridges are worn down. I've only had this keyboard for less than a year. The gel-filled wrist-rest can't save me now. I just stared at a work order for five minutes. Not too sure whether or not I blinked or read it, I can't remember. Damn these flies! I need therapy! I need therapy now! I get pissed when my note-cube runs out. I get pissed at how many office-related words are hyphenated. Life would be hell if my mouse pad and wrist-rest weren't attached. If I couldn't listen to music while sitting here, I would've hanged myself in shipping with a LAN cable a long time ago.

NOTE: After basting my ulcer with a cup of coffee, the blue paperclips stopped talking to me, but Johnny's still slumped in the bathroom, an' I don't know what to do with 'im.