Okay, so I'm standing in the printer room, coffee tipping from the edge of the Styrofoam cup into my mouth. I was taking multiple scans of my left hand. Scan after scan, each paper with the image scoops out and over the end of the tray. Each paper creating an addition to my artwork scattered across the floor.

As anyone could tell I wasn't really...working. In fact I didn't know what I was really doing. I didn't even know what I was doing working here. This place really sucked. This place sucked so hard the staff or janitors wouldn't bother cleaning up my mess. So I let it sit there. It looked...convincing enough, if convincing were the word.

The last page filled in the gap between myself and the wooden door, which was slightly open. No one seemed to care what was going on in here, even with the copying machine sputtering blatant noises. And whether she was aware of me or not, a girl pushed open the door and promptly slammed it behind her. She frowned, then she did a silent scream, shaking her small fists and opening her mouth as wide as she could. It was sort of cute. Sort of.

I dropped my cup into the trash can. She noticed me then and put her hands down, the frown seemed to become more of a frown. I tried fake smiling. Didn't work. She didn't try to do anything. She stood between the door and I. She became the door and I had to push her out of the way.

"Yep." It was all she said to me. She still hadn't moved.

I cocked my head slightly to the right and scratched my temple with my right hand's index finger. I blinked slowly; one eyelid lifting before the other.

"There's a mess in here."

I nodded, stretching the side of my eye with my index finger. My mess. All my doing.

She says, "Did you do this?" This girl, she turns around and has three or four post-its on her back. Each one reads differently.

"BITCH!" - in capitol letters. And others were spread on her back. Miss post-it board.

I grabbed the post-its, folded them, and placed them in my pocket before she turned around.

"I believe those were mine," she says placing her hand out, palm side up.

"You like derogatory names put on your back?" Those were the first words I said to her, this girl. Her name was Micky. I worked beside her. I put one of these on her back earlier today.

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Today I had to quit work. I could picture myself walking out into the main room with all the cubicles jumbled together, hardly giving their occupants room to breathe. I was leaving this world behind; throwing it to the dogs. I didn't need it anymore, not where I was going. Don't think I was going to kill myself or anything. Seriously. That's stupid.

My work space - my "home" - was connected to Micky's, actually. There was no swinging doors or a gate of any kind. Just two chairs sitting side by side with two computers also sitting side by side. It wasn't anything special. Everything was kept neat. Did I mention that one time I tried holding Micky's hand under the table to see what she would do? Never mind, I'm getting ahead of myself. Plus, it was out of impulse. Her hand was just swaying there anyway. Who leaves empty hands empty?

Before I go on, let me explain what Micky looks like. We'll start off with saying she looks practically normal: dirty blond hair straightened and down to her shoulders with a little bit held up in the back. I think it was some sort of clip. It was cute. I liked it. Her eyes were a hazel, with a tint of green around the pupils. I guess I caught myself staring into them when she was bitching at me early in the mornings. She deserved those sticky notes.

Going on with what I was talking about, Micky usually wore casual clothes to work. They were still work protocol with a less type of fashion. More of a drag, really. Gray on gray on gray. I wore the same colors. That's another thing we had in common besides keeping to ourselves and hating everything else. Though, there was one odd thing. We shared a cup of coffee every other day. One tiny Styrofoam cup; both of us drinking out of the same side. I also liked the way her nose looked and how she pouted her lips when she drank.

The reason I quit was sometimes...you have to leave. Sometimes you have to leave because you really want to stay. It's not that we're in-tuned with what we say to ourselves, but the inner voice we don't audibly hear. The voice that we feel. We seem to know what to do, or at least figure it's what we want to do. This is what I wanted to do, I think.

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I hate having to eat all the time. My stomach usually sticks to my back when I'm hungry. Fast metabolism is a curse. Eating and eating and eating. That's all I do. Morning, day, and night; I'm shoving something into my face. It's strange that I'm still not fat. I think I want to be, though. To be able to gain some form of weight and turn it into muscle; that's my dream. Sort of. I've been dreaming up a lot of things recently.

The last dream I had reminded me of the past. I swear.

Rewind back to the age of seven, and let me tell you, the future looks nothing different from what happened in the past. All right, so I'm seven and I'm sitting in a cubicle. Sound familiar?

Two large, wooden dividers snuggled me into my work; my desk; myself. I had all the time in the world in that desk, or so it seemed. I hated it. I hated sitting there and listening to pages turning; pens and pencils scratching things down on paper. For six and a half fucking hours of the day I was in this room.