Too Fabulous To Work, Too Fabulous To Die

It is said (tacitly) that there is no place for fabulosity in the environs that house stacks upon stacks of cubicles and/or shared work spaces. It is an area where staid goings-on must occur, where business needs to be conducted. It is not the sort of thing where one can showcase oneself the way a peacock might its plumes.

No, the office is for the stodgy, or worse, the casual wearers. It is for people who want to talk about their career goals and their spreadsheets and what the latest chain restaurant is that opened up nearby so that they might occasionally reward themselves for their suffering by going there. But what about that rare bird of an office worker who is too fabulous to work–but can’t not work because, you know, money is required to pay for the items that, in part, make him or her so fabulous? By the same token, he or she is also too fabulous to die–the world would be so much less sparkly without him or her. What then? Probably the spontaneous combustion that Incubus was always talking about.