In every relationship in life, there is a dominant and subordinate personality. When it comes to the one between you and your desk, there’s no question of who’s the dominant. That’s right, the desk. It beckons you with its promise of a steady paycheck and keeps you chained there for life with… the promise of a steady paycheck.
And, as with all steady pain that starts out feeling terrible, it eventually becomes dull. Pleasurable even. Like when something feels so hot it’s almost cold to the touch. Extremes are what working in the cube is all about. One minute productive, the next few hours utterly latent in activity. But regardless, the desk forces you to stay, lest you be deemed by your “superiors” to somehow be fucking off simply because you’re not at it.
So it is that the masochistic bruises of the desk’s not so metaphorical chains keep you coming back for more, turning your body portly–particularly your arse and paunch. And not even a gym membership at nearby “quick and easy” Blink is going to save your husk from its punishment: lumpiness. From both the contusions of the chains and the rotundness itself.