The Place Where My Life Happens

If you can, try to imagine a twenty-seven by eight grid of yellow Post-It squares on a sheet of very dark blue construction paper. Spilt beverages. Now imagine the color of the paper darkens as it soaks, the yellow Post-Its lose their stickiness and they fall off, one by one, until only one, about five-eighths of the way up and a quarter of the way across, remains. Zoom. Find yourself inside of that Post-It, exploring.
Imagine yourself all alone, inside something that has the sole purpose in life to serve reminders. Remind yourself that everyone else left their reminders for tomorrow, but console yourself because you won't need to be reminded of anything. They will all be gone by the time everyone arrives. Stare at your reminders on the outside sides of a computer screen. Let's put that right in front of your face. Make it a Dell.
Would you kindly look above the top of the picture frame and see Ms. Honolulu wiggling her hips at you. That little white spot on her nose is harsh. The entire thing seems white. You should probably Sharpie that. Do it later.
The carpet with the little maroon rhombi glares unforgivingly at you. It remembers the day that you actually decided to lie down on it, take a nap, and then say you were looking for a dropped pen when Mr. Pinkleton came by. He also remembers the day you dropped that pen but left it there. He found it very, very boring company. You know the carpet in the other enclosures are way more friendly. But yours still bears the stain of the day you spilt your Bailey's infused Starbucks Venti non-fat mocha latte with soy milk on him. He never did forgive you for that. Mr. Plant also drips on him. He doesn't care for Mr. Plant either.
Mr. Plant cascades down at you in a very friendly manner today, his white tentacles reaching out, wanting to give you a hug. He's not yours, but you've kind of adopted him anyways. Nathalie wouldn't mind. Mr. Plant and you have always been friends. He wants to congratulate you on that magnificent report, tell you that you are worth something to the company.
You are worth something.
You are worth something.
You are worth something.
You are worth something, because you don't need reminders. You don't need the little yellow squares that go on your Dell that always fall off at inopportune times. You haven't fallen yet. And as the bartender tells the bloke who works across and to the right of you to go home after the second Scotch & Soda that he tipped over that evening, you smile, because you don't need reminders. Not you.
You don't need reminders.