Some careers sound incredible on paper, but in reality are not. Cow Puncher, Sound Engineer, Blacksmith and Professor of Comparative Literature are a few. Unfortunately, so is owning the world’s most popular laser tag company.
The problem lies in the consciousness of the fact that other people are enjoying your service and products, while you are stuck in a corner office with nothing to do but give paperwork to your secretaries, sip highballs, stroke the sleek coat of your office tabby, and practice on your mini putting green. Oh, and also invite tailors up to measure you for new suits. There you are, officially stuck, while greasy-faced twerps pour into pleasure domes, your pleasure domes, voices breaking as they grunt at each other, cheer at felling their companions and laugh laugh laugh laugh laugh their idiot laughs, thinking naught of you, the one who has so munificently bestowed these laser mazes upon them.
I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve wept into my giant, leather-bound desk planner, so full of sorrow was I at the lack of recognition I received and how removed I was from where my heart truly felt it belonged– in a dark laser-filled arena with plastic arms and armor adorning my be-suited body, gleaming like a god in the low light. Despite their grubby hands and pizza-scented breath, we were not so different, these groups of teens with their obligatory parent chaperones and I. We were all united by a common love for futuristic faux battle. We all dreamed of a day when the entire world would be embroiled in endless laser war with breaks for mozzarella sticks and large Surge sodas. Yet they were preparing, whilst I… I… what was I doing with my life? Had I ever truly lived? In trying to bring life to others, I had let my own soul wither like a raspberry on a vine which has not been eaten by a bird, small rodent or scavenging human!
Was it too late? Could I still escape? I knew the break would have to be drastic, a monumental gesture. Clutching my one true companion, my office tabby, “Office Abbie,” to my chest, I leapt boldly through the plate glass window. Since I know myself so well, I had anticipated the day that I would decide to leap through the window and had situated my office on the ground floor. I made it, but Office Abbie did not. Or rather, she clawed my beautiful silk shirtfront to shreds, severely compromising the design of my elaborate chest tattoo in the process, and disappeared down some dark alley the moment that I dropped her. I dearly hope that she has not become a streetwalking cat, pretending at purrs for any Tom, Dick or Harry that offers her a kitty treat. If you happen upon her, I implore you, let her know she can come home.