Thursday, August 18, 2011

Don't Shred On Me

Write from the point of view of a stack of paper a few inches from the shredder. 
Here I sit, inches from death on the corner of some office schmuck’s desk.  The way I look at it, he’ll be doing me a favor.  
No longer am I going to be the coaster for his morning coffee that he always seems to spill down the front of his previously-stained cotton button-up.  I won’t have to watch him sneeze spastically on the computer monitor and look around for a kleenex but resign himself to using one of my precious sheets for a tissue!  I won’t miss hearing him slurp obnoxiously at his Cup of Noodles everyday because his culinary delights are limited to microwavable soup and stale cookies from the office break room.  I won’t have to bear the embarrassing sight of watching him attempt to glance slyly at the butt of the office secretary or hear him whisperingly berate himself for not saying “hi” to her, again. 
Really, I should take it as a compliment that they need to shred me.  Some paper stacks spend their entire lives printed with meaningless dribble like school lunch menus or office memos.  I’m important.  If you were to glance at my immaculately white pages you would be able to find sensitive financial information about the office schmuck’s company and personal information on some of the employees.  I’d have a pretty sweet gig if I was sitting on the CEO’s desk instead of this college-dropout who tries to look up nudey sites on his lunch break.   
I go forward into the shredder valiantly.  I have done my office duty and lived out my life.  I’ve been handled and read by many people and even been scribbled on a few times.  It is my time and I go willingly.  Also, I hope it won’t hurt.

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