Desk Chair

I assume that I’ll die right here, mostly
killed slowly from the legs up because I
can’t afford the healthy pleasures of a
treadmill desk. Many days my ass hurts more
than my head, the sharp strain of muscle pain
eclipsing the pounding that creative
force exerts on my brain. Not that I am
complaining, mind. It’s better to spend my
time seated before a blinking cursor than
standing on a factory line making purses,
or even worse, selling them at perverse
prices to women who’ve never heard of
work, cursing under my breath. No, I’d much
rather sit here and write myself to death.

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