My Darling Employment,

I love you. I truly do. I get paid nine dollars an hour to sit in your office and write meaningless drivel on my blog, to listen to John Mayer and the Amelie soundtrack far too often, to kick up my feet and fall asleep if I really, really feel like it. I can finish Jenna Starborn today, and then I have magazines to look through and a short story to revise. You sit quietly by, and you really don't have any objections.
But Employment, I have to tell you something. After a couple of hours, I get a little tired of your unwillingness to cooperate. You don't seem to understand that my boredom is your fault. Make the phone ring or something. Yesterday you gave me a conversation with a deaf girl (via an operator). That was interesting. I appreciate that.
What happened today? Did I do something to make you angry? I suppose I should just stop leaving you memos and give you some time.
I've only been here for an hour, after all.

Yours Until Six O'Clock,
Chelsey