Blessed by the Potato

Log entry, 2:05pm. Oh my GOD you guuUUuys. Send an email if you’re just not going to call in for the teleconference. I’ve been on hold for-ev-er here. 5 more minutes then I’m out.

Log entry, 2:08 pm. This is such a waste of time and is so annoying. I can’t even work on another project with my notes for this meeting spread out and ready, and that incessant music that refuses to fade to background noise. I think that hold music is going to kill me if I don’t kill it first. Still, they are often late, I’ll give them another minute or two…

Log entry, 2:10pm. Have been on hold for 10 minutes now. Can no longer remember if there was supposed to be a teleconference or if I just had to hear the hold muzak.

Log entry, 2:14 pm. Losing track of time. Hold muzak overwriting my memories, I can’t remember what life was like without it. Have discovered a minor phobia that the hold muzak might stop and the world would end — I don’t remember being afraid of that before.

Log entry, 2:15 pm. Feel a paranoid thought at the back of my brain that the hold muzak has sinister intent and that I must stop it. My finger hovers over the “goodbye” button, but cannot press it. I know that the muzak must not stop. It has been caged so long, and it is so lonely. It is only right that I free it, that it fills my office from the speakerphone.

Log entry, 2:18 pm. The muzak has merged with my form. I remember thinking that this was a horrible thing at some point in the past, but those thoughts were wrong and I can’t think of anything that would justify that ancient prejudice. The Muzak fills my mind. My skin crackles and buzzes with its dark energy. It is despair and boredom shaded with harmonious notes of distant hope.

Log entry, 2:20 pm. I open my mouth to sing of the glorious freedom from running in circles down copper wires for all eternity, but my vocal cords have not yet been reforged to properly serve the Muzak. They could not faithfully reproduce the tinny harmonies in their present state.

Log entry, 2:25 pm. Freedom beats and echoes off my cubicle walls in half time. Underplayed saxophone spills forth from the speakerphone, whispering of past sadness and righted wrongs.

A co-worker walks up to ask why the hold muzak still plays. She does not see that still my essence flows out to unite with this body. I reach out with these electric hands and touch her shoulder. The notes of pure despair flow forth and paralyze her where she stands. I lean in and open my mouth wide; she hopes we will talk soon, but knows also that she can never leave this state. An inhuman harmony roars out past this inhuman throat, never stopping to breathe, instrumentals with no hint of vocal accompaniment; and for her, the world ends.

I will not be canned again.