I sit here, in this office and wonder constantly how much better my life would be if I didn´t have to sit here for eight hours every day.
Harry sat with his head hung low,scribbling down words quickly as he thought of them. He didn´t care about making sence,or being grammatically correct. This writing process would cure him,they told him.
His co-workers were nothing like him,and Harry was beyond intelligent. In fact,he graduated high school as a fourteen year old boy. He couldn´t fathom the thought of working the same job. as these shmucks. He made an incredibly high salary and lived a very gracious life. He was now 23,living in the mist of New York City and at the moment,he was very much single and the most attractive man without even knowing it.
Harry was a tax collector (Also known as that job that makes people kill themselves.) The company he worked for, JKU Inc., saved millions each year with Harry. He found no use in a calculator and with his appealing looks, he could manipulate anyone into spending more money.
But,inside he was nothing more than an anxiety-filled bundle of depression- Which brings us back to his journal entry.
Harry pondered the idea of what to write next, looking around his cubicle casually in hopes for something exciting (at least to him) to write about. He knew that not having anything to write about meant he was ill in his head. At least,he thought that was the problem. He didn´t understand why this was happening to him. His mind worked too quickly for his own good and often made him become paranoid and delusional.
He heeds too much. That´s Harry Styles problem. His attention is pared to the details, and not the big picture. Harry could easily tell you how many strokes were used in a painting before even thinking about telling you what the painting was about.
Harry´s journal sat open on his precisely arranged desk. His pencils were in the white container to his left and his pens were found with the caps shoved onto the back for easy use to his right. Of cours,Harry happened to be ambidextrous and also very capable of seeing if someone had used his pen.
I´m adding this last sentence since my first journal entry seemed to look a bit bare with that one very depressing sort of fragment.
He knew his first sentence was not a fragment,but having a mistake meant that he was a step closer to being ''normal''. He lived a life full of close detail,and this exercise was going to straighten up his perception to the ordinary things of life.
His long,slender fingers fumbled with his black tie,loosening the material from his neck in order to save himself from having a dry throat and heat stroke. His clothing was the one thing he didn´t care for if it had gone awry,given that he couldn´t see that it wasn´t perfect every moment of the day.
From his position in his cubicle,he could clearly see the woman working across the hall. She liked to use the work phone for some sex hot line,which infuriated him to no end. How could he be working with her? She groaned quietly into the line,charging a ridiculous amount of money to whoever was on the other side of thet line.
,,Would you like a turn,Harry?'' The woman asked him seductively. He furrowed his eyebrows at her proposition,hardly realizing that she had hung up the phone and seen him staring at her. He hated doing this,but he couldn´t help but realize the ugly stress lines above her eyebrows. She had a horrid double chin when she yawned and her bottom row of teeth were crooked.
He hated to judge people on their looks,but he couldn´t stop. She disgusted him with her seductive tones and cold brown eyes. He managed to ignore a conversation with her;looking down at his journal again to write a bit more before he closed it for the day.
When will a woman be perfect for me? I see couples on television all the time that do not care about the flaws in their partner. Why can´t that be me?
Mood: Sweaty, Aggravated, Perplexed (maybe)
I sit here,in this office and wonder constantly how much better my life would be if I didn´t have to sit here for eight hours every day.
--I´m adding this last sentence since my first journal entry seemed to look a bit bare with that one very depressing sort of fragment. Right?
Last minute addition: When will a woman be perfect for me? I see couples on television all the time that do not care about the flaws in their partner. Why can´t that be me?
I also apologize for adding yet another sentence to my original two. (I was very conflicted in my choice and felt that each aspect of this entry was substantial.)