My real name

I wait. I wait in a line. A line of people in similar or far far worse circumstances. The lady at the desk smelling faintly of menthol cigarettes corrects me. I used the wrong terminology, and as a result she decides it makes her better at being a person - in compensation for her terrible job. The fact she’s on the other side of this desk.

I’m on the phone, still in this forsaken place. The receiver smells nice. Strangely. Like facewash, or perfume.

Fifteen minutes of classical music, separated by a dial tone, a generic information message. Then more calming music. I’ve heard all three of the pieces now. Bach, Tchaikovsky, and the third is Brahms maybe.

I sip from my coffee, which is now cooling. Another dial tone - my hopes go up for a brief moment before once more I hear the lifeless voice of the centrelink automated voice. What is it about that voice that makes it painfully apparent it’s not human, but machine.

I’ve been here for such a time, I’m tempted to leave and call from home using the number the lady gave me on a sticky note. But this live stream story is keeping me here for the time being.

I suppose this story is just as boring as what’s going on right now.

A dinosaur of unknown species plunges through the window opposite me. Screeching its foul sound, and bleeding under foot from all the glass. It picks an old lady up in it’s teeth, and swiftly breaks her neck in a whipping motion. She didn’t have time to scream. The security guards are glancing at one another as people start to spew outwards and away from the beast.

I still sit here. On the service phone. Listening to Bach. Sipping my cappuccino that was made with not enough experience, or creme.

I take a sip, turn and all the chaos has gone. Blessing my imagination, I sniff.

God I hate this place.

It’s the only thing that makes sense at the moment. So I practice all the time.

showjumperr:

Are you ever just like

　

every time

(Source: occupythetardis, via aibsyesteryear)