Might not be a good thing

I'm going to make this short but sweet. It's a fable of sorts, for those of us who are in offices and cubicles throughout the country, or even the world (my grandiosity truly is boundless), and we sit for hours on end, doing a job of work, and in some cases....engaging in some rather interesting ways, of passing time in the slow moments of the day.

This is the story of Timothy Timmons, who as a young boy experienced a trama, few adults are emotionally resilient enough to withstand, yet this stalwart young lad grew to manhood, without a significant moment to be had since. Now, a drab and listless man, who's daily work was of such monumental tedium, he was often heard muttering through the halls, a mantra, of his own making. To the occasional co-worker, passing close enough to hear this odd chant, they would experience a feeling, very similar to fear, mixed with a generous amount of disgust.

Timothy, being the type of man, to whom great power eluded, took singular pride in this, as he would, with great regularity, wander the most populated of hallways. Gleefully muttering his strange mutterings, and barely muffling the giggles, that the shocked reactions would create.

As the months would fall away, like lead paint chips from a derelict building, Timothy's glee would increase, and only after increasing the severity of his barely uttered utterances. He would sit in his spartan apartment night upon night, gorging himself on instant noodles and instant orange flavored beverages, and concoct ways to sicken his co-workers with, the depths of a damaged, yet deviously creative mind.

One fateful day, upon waking from an especially productive nightmare, Timothy rose from his bed, with purpose and drive. His breakfast that morning was a symphony of flavors and textures, that seemed to take Timothy by surprise. He wondered to himself, if he'd ever had a meal this delicious, this remarkable. In fact, he had, every morning, for the best part of twenty-five years.

He noticed that the clothes he'd worn everyday, fit better, more complimentary, and more flattering than ever before. As he left his apartment, he noticed that the streets gleamed with a shine that bathed him in a light that felt unnatural, but welcomed. As he rode the bus, a realization that was so completely profound, his body shuddered with delight. He looked around, hoping others had noticed, hoping some other soul would be looking at him, so he could share a look of contentment. Finding no one, he smiled to himself.

As the bus stopped, and opened its doors, Timothy nearly bounded to the sidewalk. He gait was springy, and playful. To on-lookers, it would appear as if "Guys and Dolls" or "West Side Story" had decided to have street performers, complete with Jerome Robbins choreography. With the office building he worked, looming in the distance, his walk became firm and determined, his footfalls more deliberate and strong. As he stood in front of the large class doors to the building, leading to the lobby, a look of complete confidence shown on his puckish face, and he walked inside, like a conquering Caesar.

To be continued...