Friday, 22 October 2010

Journal of a Post-Apocalyptic Office Drone

Journal of a Post-Apocalyptic Office Drone

Unlike everyone else’s story, my story doesn't begin with the beginning; my story begins with the end, which in the
end became my real beginning.

The Mayans predicted the end of the world with their calendar, but nobody believed the Mayans. I mean who’d trust the predictions of a race that didn’t see their own demise? I half think that the guy who was in charge of the calendar died suddenly one day and that’s the reason the calendar ended when it did, in 2012, or maybe I’m wrong, maybe they did see it coming, but as I said, no one believed the Mayans. We were much more trusting of the desk calendars on our computers that seemingly had no end date, than a thousand year old prediction of our demise predicted by a dead civilisation.

The world as we knew it, ended on a Monday. Maybe that's why the collective masses had always hated Mondays as much as they had for so long, maybe it was some kind of sub-conscious knowledge that the world would end on that day or maybe we all simply just hated our working after a nice weekend. One thing I am certain of, is that I hated my job.

That was one of the few benefits of the world ending when it did; I could finally quit my job. I'd wanted to for some time, but always found a reason as to why I couldn't. It was a shame though, as "The End" robbed me of the pleasure of telling Mr. David-Smythe-Smegwell exactly what I thought of him and his office politics, as he'd died like everyone else in my office had... mysteriously.

Other benefits of the world ending were things like: no debt, responsibilities were out the window, you could wear what you wanted and do what you wanted whenever you wanted to!

Unfortunately there were things to counterbalance these benefits, like mutants, psychopaths, hunger, thirst, disease, killer robots, rabid animals, vicious fauna, no TV, no beer, no computers that didn't try to kill you and the constant brushes with death you get living in a post-apocalyptic nightmare. But at least I didn’t have any debt.

Half of me wondered if that was what the world governments brand spanking new plan to get rid of debt was... by ending the world as we knew it. But as all official channels no longer exist, not in any sane capacity anyway, I guess that one will remain unanswered for the time being.

I'd read somewhere, when reading like so many things was taken for granted, that you should keep your mind busy, so that's why I decided to write down what I've written here. (Reading’s still alive, but grammar as you've probably already noticed, died with society and common decency I’m afraid)

If you find this journal, then I'm probably dead. I hope I died painlessly, and that you've not had to kill me because I became mad as trousers and tried to wear your skin as a suit, or steal your shoes, or attacked you because you were French or something!

I also hope that you don't do anything “odd” with my corpse. Please bury me, and if I did attack you, I'm sorry.

If you however are a crazy person, you no doubt have already or are planning to eat me, if that is the case I hope you choke on me and if you use this journal as toilet paper, I hope you find these pages extremely coarse.

There's always the chance that this has been found years after my death and is being used as a historical insight into what these nightmarish years were like. That'd be nice.

I’ll keep writing in this till I eventually die, so if I suddenly trail off, you know what’s happened.

Yours ever faithfully,
Adamicus the 3rd.

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