Going postal


Slurps.  Burps. Farts. Sniffs.

These are the things that cause mild-mannered office workers to go postal.

It’s not one big episode that precedes the cracking of the veneer.

It’s the slow pressure-cooker build-up over months and months.

It starts as a minor itch between the shoulder blades, spread to a visible wince and slowly gathers momentum like a snowball into an avalanche.

It’s the repetitive “schluuurp” of the world’s largest cup of coffee.

The click-click-click of a pen.

It’s the constant miasma of egg-flavoured fart.

The sniffing of a persistent drop of snot.

The daily microwaving of fish in the office kitchen.

Above all, it is the laugh that stubbornly refuses to be drowned out by loud music. The one that has you abruptly standing up and leaving the office to shelter in the bathroom and silently scream for salvation.

It’s the laugh of the devil as he welcomes you to hell.

It’s the Janice laugh.

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I write because I have to. It is a compulsion. I do it to vent, to laugh and to remember. I blog because it has been so long since I had to write with a pen that my hand would go into cramp if I tried to write a journal.

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