Fuck you, cubicle!

I am going to KILL myself pretty damn soon if I do not find another job. I know that just a month or two ago I was excited to have a steady paycheck, and I am, don’t get me wrong. But this just plain sucks.

Let me spell out my worklife so far. This has incorporated almost two and a half years of full-time, post-college employment.

I accepted a job at my company (a leading military service contractor) in October of 2004. The company was located in a beautiful building. As they brought me to my very first office, I simply could not believe it. This was not possible. They had given me my OWN office, which was huge and fancily decorated. I had a huge panoramic window view. Top-of-the-line office equipment. Nice leather chair and sofas.

Score.

I worked there for only a couple of months before my manager told me they thought they had a better place for me. I inquired as to whether I had done anything wrong performance-wise and he insisted I hadn’t. I don’t think he lied, because my review was outstanding. He wouldn’t have kept me on with the company had I not been doing a satisfactory job.

However, they would put me in a position actually working on the local Air Force Base. I would be doing less technical writing (which I did fairly well, but it obviously didn’t thrill me) and more “creative” writing—human interest stories and the like.

Sounded okay to me, so I told my boss that I’d definitely be up for it (I didn’t have much of a choice, though). When I moved, they put me in an almost-as-good office that was huge with nice furniture and equipment and had a decent level of privacy. The job was about at the same level of before—not very thrilling, but eh, that’s okay. I can deal.

But sweet, sweet privacy! How I miss thee!

So, through no fault of our own yet through the fault of an extremely mentally incompetent general, fast forward two years to January of this year. We have now moved to one of, if not THE most crowded building on Base. We have combined with the other public affairs office, many of whom don’t exactly care for our presence, so it’s slightly awkward, to say the least.

And we’re in fucking cubicles.

Holy shit.

CUBICLES.

I now am a full-fledged character in the movie, “Office Space.”

Privacy has officially flown out the proverbial window. There is zero of it. There are dozens of us in one big room with half-walls surrounding us.

I feel violated.

I feel like someone's always looking over my shoulder.

I feel like a fucking chimpanzee in a cage.

Human beings are NOT supposed to work in conditions like these. It’s not RIGHT. We’re supposed to have privacy. Writers especially are supposed to have silence, if they so desire, while producing their work.

Instead we hear about Mary’s weekend screwing two guys at once, or Tom’s drunken spree the night before. We hear ludicrous phone conversations about Suzie’s daughter’s diarrhea, or how Bambi got “like, the best deal EVER on those awesome pink Manolo Blahnik shoes we saw like, last weekend in like, the Neiman Marcus store window!”

Wow, like, isn’t that like, fucking awesome?

Somebody needs to shoot Bambi.

I hate it here. And I’m bitching because I can’t call up my girlfriends and bitch because everyone will hear me and hate me because I hate most of them right now and their STUPID FUCKING CONVERSATIONS.

How hard is it to make even itty-bitty closet-esque offices with full walls!?!? C’mon. It can’t be THAT difficult. Hell—if someone gives me the materials, I’ll construct the closet-office myself.

Bob Propst invented the cubicle in 1964 while he was working for the Herman Miller Company. I hate him so much. I didn’t b other to look up whether or not he was dead, but if he IS dead, good. If he’s not, as much as I’d LIKE to kill him, I’m not capable of doing so, so I’m simple going to loathe him and voodoo-doll his sorry ass.

Fuck you, Bob Propst. And fuck your shitty invention—the cubicle.