I traded in my leather, spikes, and patches for business casual and the privilege to watch the mountains of bureaucracy rise across my desk. Mountains I will conquer with the aid of my trusty date stamp, I might add.  I also had to make sure that my white collared shirts were long enough to cover the years of tattoos, and all my piercings had to be removed. All but one that is; what they can’t see can’t hurt them, right?

I used to run around in dingy bars, and filthy basements yelling and screaming about revolution. You know, tear down the system and all that jazz. Sure, I would love to throw my computer out the window and light my desk on fire, but that kind of behaviour is not conducive to getting a pay cheque. A man has to eat, and I enjoy a roof over my head as much as the next cubicle monkey. Plus, I seem to have gotten used to some of the finer things in life. Without a pay cheque, how am I supposed to get my Armani suits dry cleaned and my shoes custom made?

Though, a quite mumbling of discontent can be heard during the ritualistic coffee pot talk. I bet I could get a couple people together and burn this place down. Or we could keep quietly bitching to ourselves and stealing office supplies; I recently ran out of post-its, and Deb down the hall needs a new pen.