It has finally happened.

I spend my days with my existence bordered by two-and-a-half carpeted dwarfed walls. A mechanical glow is cast on my young face for eight hours straight daily. They keep the blinds closed, not that the view of the array of strip malls stretched out in an expanse of cement is any sort of salvation from my damned perch. But I would just like to know if the morning clouds have burned off or not. 

I spend these calculated hours proofing websites and designing logos. I'm mastering the technology that defines my generation. Its great, just great. 

My boss has an Australian accent that seems to be created by the bouncing of his big jowls and the sole purpose for his nose hair and unkempt mustache. 

The lady at the desk next to me wore a bolo tie today. 

The staff writer (who I envy) has the voice of a muppet, which is only extra funny with the way her glasses magnify her eyes against her mousy face. 

I introduced myself to the editor of Art Ltd. Magazine today. He hardly shook my hand and laughed like it was funny I was even talking. 

So these days, these days remind me that I need to fucking write more. I have got this sinking suspicion that making sure all the umlauts and on all those crazy artists' names aren't turning out all fucked with html code isn't going to land me a job as an art journalist one day. 

So I rot and cry in this office from nine to five, the contrast of what I want to do with what I don't so palpable it makes me angry, and I think about how I need to start writing more. So I come home, and wouldn't you know it, I'm paralyzed with defeat and general exhaustion to the point that all I can do is drink a Heffeweizen or two and watch TV. 

I AM A MISERABLE MIDDLE CLASS AMERICAN AT THE AGE OF TWENTY.

The fact that I'm not even getting paid makes me relate to all those poor souls taking it hard with the economical shit show even more. 

Sitting in that stagnant office with some classic soft rock drifting from old bargain speakers, sifting through pages and pages of electronic text makes my skin crawl with the anxiety of imminent loss.

I can't tell if this cubicle is a white flag to all the is free will or the price I'm paying so I'll have it forever one day.