Do you ever feel like you’re the last person in New York City working a twentieth century job? That everyone else has somehow managed to finagle a twenty-first century flexible schedule? You probably don’t. You’re probably one of those flexible schedule assholes.
Well, I’m not. I’m the only “working” girl in New York, the last girl still working in the trenches of Midtown. Except it isn’t even real working. It’s abstract, ambiguous and pretend. Filling the hours of the day not with work, but with the presence of your body–which I guess counts as physical work considering the toll it takes on your back. Again, office jobs are akin to whoredom.
When it feels like you’re the only working girl (or maybe boy) in New York, you must gather strength from the spirits of your twentieth century office working forefathers and mothers, enduring the plight with the quiet nobility of the horse in Animal Farm.