The 42nd Floor

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While looking for a job I have been temping. So far I have worked in two places. This upscale costume jewelry company in SOHO where I toiled away in the dungeon shipping hundreds of plastic bracelets worth thousands of dollars. It was thrilling.

Just this week I had my first go at being a receptionist. I was on the 42nd floor of a skyscraper right in Bryant Park. While my supervisor showed me how to set out bottles of water for meetings, she mentioned that you need 10 million dollars to even walk through the front door. Then stressed the importance of setting out a variety of sodas.

Slightly interested and underwhelmed I took the the desk with a phone with many flashing red buttons  waiting for my fingers to fly. Two hours later the phone sits silent and I have discovered I don’t even have access to my mail account. I take to googling everything on the Internet. Everything to me is mostly jobs and TasteSpotting, which thankfully wasn’t blocked.

However after eight hours even food loses its draw; so I being to draw, and doodle, making large ink images. As my pen moves and I stare out at the Manhattan skyline on a floor that many people dream about working. I deeply see how much that dream isn’t mine. I don’t want luxury, I don’t need to be monetarily rich, I don’t need anything that leads to me to an environment this sterile. A place where my biggest achievement was setting out lunch. I need to be creative, I  need to live where squares aren’t the shape of choice.  I read once that people who are extremely wealthy tend to be less human. Like the freedom of their money made them forget the struggles of humanity. That may be true for some and not for others, like all things.

Either way I want to live with humans, animals, maybe even some aliens if they are so inclined. I’m just looking for a place where trees scrape the sky, and peoples’ feet are on the ground and their thoughts are with the clouds.

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