Sour Milk

by Joy Monger

I work in a weird place.  Half warehouse, half cube town, it is pretty easy to stay modest and grounded around here. 

I’ve gotten so used to the sound of tractors and mariachi music that I don’t even hear them anymore.  I’ve also stopped seeing the chipped paint and dingy carpets.  We’re doing good work here and the shell doesn’t matter.

But today my cube smells like sour milk.  Which is apparently also the smell of a dead mouse.  Because the feral cats we keep have stopped mousing, so the mice came upstairs to die. In my cubicle. Which I share with one to four  people at any given time. And there’s a weird doll head on my desk from an old student project and a flag football trophy for third place from 2007, and a collection of mustaches, and the guys on the floor have switched from mariachi to hip hop so I have Snoop Dogg stuck in my head, and someone has been vacuuming for the past hour just for fun. 

And though none of this is particularly “joyful”, the sheer absurdity of it all does make me laugh.

Life doesn’t turn out the way you planned it.  But it sure is funny.

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