There's more, I know there is.
This is what I think, as my square-eyed self sits there; my breath is stale and right leg restless. The computer screen in front of me no longer appears to be a screen. It resembles a bright blur of numbers and characters. The spreadsheet is making little sense now. Four hours glued to this thing does nothing for my cognitive abilities, I think, as I continue to try and navigate the desktop, this all too familiar intangible space. I check my emails. I type some numbers into the spreadsheet. Am I gratified yet? This monotonous virtual voyage is making me want to strangle something; I'm definitely treating myself to a Kitkat after work, I say under my breath, just inaudibly enough for my supervisor Susan not to hear.
I absorb the space hieroglyphics in front of me with the competence of a dyslexic alien farmer, and then decide I can't go on. I turn the damned thing off. Work will have to wait (but never end, it ever ends.)
The crotch region of my work trousers is stained red by the tomato sauce from a pasta pot I had in my lunchtime meal deal. I must be spilling it on myself deliberately at this point. Incessant routine you might call it. I'm thirsty. I walk to the water fountain, conveniently near my desk- a small win you might say.
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