Dear Joe Blow

Dear Joe Blow.
Fuck you. I'm fucking mad at you. I am mad at you because you have power over me. And you don't even know me. For you, I am one more number, one more case to look at, one more nuisance in a day full of them. I am one more folder, one more form you have to fill out, one more thing you have to check out in your checklist. One more thing before you go home, to your little life outside your little office. Full of pride, wrapped in your flag.

You, with your cheap haircut and Wal-Mart shirt. You with your tacky t-shirt the same color of your tie. You and your idiotic questions and more than passive aggressive disclaimer: "It's my job". It's your job to dissect my life and accuse me of being a fluke. It's your job to question every single thing I say. It's your job to tell me that I can live on $20,000. It's your job not to understand what it means to someone with an education to land a job that would mean everything to his future life.

You, with that tiny office with dust bunnies on the corner and dusty desk. You, with your little tacky red pen, taking notes on recycled paper. You, with your Dell computer and empty walls, you, with your bureaucratic little job in a big building full of people who do not know your name and don't care about you. You, probably thinking about your frozen dinner in the microwave.

You, with your shiny wedding ring and narrow-minded opinion of what a relationship is or could be. You, with your 'Sir' and 'Ma'am', possibly very jealous of someone making twice what you make in a year sitting in a windowless cubicle deciding on people's lives and times. You, with your video camera and your little world. You, with your forms and checklists and your empty lunch hour.

Me, who cannot even remember your name or face. Me, who despaired over your questions and my lack of memory. Me, who almost offed himself out of despair. You, who possibly do not deserve a second thought from the people around you. Unless their destiny is wrapped around your finger.

I'm mad at you. But I pity you, too. How many people's lives have you fucked up? One? One hundred? I think nobody cares. Unless they're your boss. Your boss, who probably tells you 'good job' and then forgets you. Because you only exist during those hours when you're destroying somebody's life. Otherwise you're another blob dragging himself through a day full of routine and things that do not concern him at all. Who needs critical thinking and emotional intelligence when they pay you to be detached?

I'm mad at you. Because you made me lose control, because you made me cry and doubt myself and because you made me think the unthinkable. Because what you did to me that morning is going to change my life. No matter how this ends, you changed my life. How does it feel? Oh, wait. I forgot you only exist from nine to five. When you are enclosed by those four walls. Is that your life? You are right. I wouldn't like it, either.

Still, I'm mad at you. But I guess I should not be. Because for you, it's just a job. I'm just one more face, too. And you'll be back to this tomorrow. Because this is your job. One that you'll be doing for years, and years, and years. Because that will be the only way to be in your boss's office. I bet you covet that. And that is YOUR Karma. And Karma is a bitch. And a bitch that gets back at you. And maybe this is what I have to go through for whatever reason. It's my Karma. So I'll just go through with it.

Om Namah Shivaya