'A Tie-fighter's Blues'

When commonly displaced from the aptitude of sleep, the slightest friction of skin; through reckless batting - brings the white of my eyes to raw. Though no tinge of red is present; no vessels breaking into glory - I certainly feel red around the eyes; around their bases, their feet the roots - but I look on; or in this case: I stab them to the monitor as I type t.h.e.s.e.w.o.r.d.s. I went to bed a little late last night.

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I am currently waiting for my freedom at six.

The last ‘exciting’ thing which happened today has left a somewhat irritating aftertaste to my already gradual decline in work morale. Early this morning I had found a small perforated circular disc, the size of a small coin on the carpeted floor (a complicatedly woven-but-ugly mat comprising my favorite colors for office decor: dirty brown, blue and grey), and unknowing of its properties, I threw it into the wastepaper basket as though it was the most useless thing in the world. It was picked up by the janitor a few minutes after.

I reek of regret now.

My chair snapped at the place where the part fell loose - and now, the days will see me developing an [more (?) - read: a more (?)] unusual back condition (let’s put the icing on the cake: I already hunch and slouch - one more than the other depending on the weather) as the said chair’s backrest is leaning thirty degrees more than usual. I’m blessed I am.

Recent unintentional eavesdropping has landed me with news that ones’ accidental disposing of vital chair parts into the waste paper basket would most likely bring the said individual to a liability of unnecessary office-redtape for replacement of a whole damn chair (which of course only would result if the specific part which was thrown out, cannot be found in the local market; and no makeshift one can be crafted). Now, I am not one ready to be subjected to another warning letter from the Human Resource department (the first two were acts of blunder on my part; I hate my capacity for memory..) - where I would face the possibility of being pointed with ‘an act of disgruntled vandalism’ (?).

Noes!

That I shall leave with my disposition here and now. It’s six.

Time to go home.

(" , )

Edit: Through some sheer stroke of luck (or call it divine intervention?), and some awkward balancing on my part: the chair is all fixed and proper. Though it'll only be a matter of time before it falls apart again..