For those of you uneducated types, The Myth of Sisyphus is not a story about someone who got a legendary and anomalous STD. It is a book by Albert Camus that wields the tale of Sisyphus, a man doomed to roll the same boulder up a hill every day, and each time watch it topple back to the bottom, as the ultimate metaphor for life. In spite of being aware of how futile repeating this daily task is, Sisyphus continues to do so. The question put forth by Camus is: Does being cognizant of life’s meaninglessness warrant suicide? A valid question indeed, and one an office worker would be immediately inclined to reply “Yes” to.
For you see, Sisyphus doesn’t have shit in terms of agony when held up in comparison to an office worker. Indeed, only someone who sits in a box (masked under the polite term “cubicle”) five days a week and performs the same drudgery-laden tasks that are mostly made up to fill the hours of the day can truly understand pain and suffering. I highly doubt Sisyphus would trade places with anyone working the cube scene in Midtown. In fact, I’m about ready to call up homeboy and ask to switch places with him. At least I would be fit as fuck in his position.