There are those out there who would call me mad, insane, psychotic; but I am none of those. Instead, I have merely succumbed to the weight of my responsibility, the thrill of the chase, the ecstasy of my own dominion. I order the supplies for my office, and I am drunk with power.
When first presented with this Herculean burden, my naivete bested my rationale. Surely it would be easy, I thought, to govern myself according to any earthly system of morality whilst maintaining a godlike sway over those around me. While it was in my authority to order David’s non-caffeinated passion berry tea or Karen’s special staples that look like they have cat ears, I vowed to never let that corrupt me. Looking back, my blind faith brings me to tears.
My descent was slow, incremental, almost imperceptible to those around me. It began, as most downward spirals do, with ballpoint pens. See, many of my colleagues seem to prefer capped pens over clicky pens. It’s hard to fault them for their ignorance, their blindness to the inherent wastefulness of capped pens, how the caps get lost and the pens dry out, or how they mix and match pen caps until the pens look like little people forced to wear hats.
So when Jared asked if I could order some capped pens, the “ones with the padded grip that make[s] it easier on [his] arthritis,” I seized an opportunity. In that moment I decided that I would not order Jared’s space hogging, ghastly, boorish, capped pens, and instead ordered my preferred sleek, smooth, clicky pens with the pleasing design. And if Jared had a problem with it, he could get fucked in hell.
From there, my impulses only intensified. I ordered my favorite coffee, Pumpkin Berry Decaf, much to the chagrin of my co-workers. I found the color of the tissues offensive, so I ordered ones with a nice herringbone pattern. The cups in the breakroom made my hands look Italian, so I ordered more flattering ones. As God of the office,there was nothing I wouldn’t recreate in my image.
Eventually, my hubris ate away at me. I had lost touch with humanity, and with my co-workers. Gone were the perfunctory chats about Game Of Thrones in the breakroom, replaced instead by the steely stares of resentful souls whose only wish was that I’d supply them with unflavored scotch tape. No one would even acknowledge the weather to me.
I became isolated, alone, and indignant. I lashed out. I was intent on destroying my empire, and vowed to punish my followers for forsaking me. That was when the sweetener war happened. My acolytes believed they could overthrow me by placing their own orders through our online retailer. But I changed the password, I cut off their supply line. Then I struck. I ordered only stevia in the raw. The heretics would be forced to either bend to my will, or drink unsweetened Keurig coffee. But instead of crumbling underneath my decree, they remained resilient. They rallied their spirits and simply visited a local coffee shop instead. From that day forward, no one would say hi to me at my desk. I was forgotten, forsaken, a god in which no one believed.
I hope that whoever finds this learns from my mistakes. As I sit writing this from behind a wall of pink side perforated dot matrix printer paper, single serving caramel creamers, and staple removers, I wish I had not let my pride obscure my judgement as these roughly seven thousand conical paper cups now obscure the sunlight. Do not remember me as I am now, as what I have become. Instead, remember me as I once was; an underpaid administrative assistant secretly watching porn on his work computer.