Well, here we are again. Another standard workday. Trust me, I know; it’s hard to come to work every morning at 9 AM, fire up the ol’ computer, and mindlessly crunch numbers for eight hours. And with summer quickly approaching, it can feel bleak to put-off time with family in favor of sitting in a dimly lit office. I get it. Really.

When you’re feeling low this summer season, just remember the age-old saying; it takes more muscles to frown than to smile. And I’ll bet it takes even more muscles to, for the love of God, lift this vending machine off me please.

Call an ambulance I am starting to taste blood (book title? maybe I’ll write a book while I’m d– oh dear God, I already said that)

Yesterday afternoon, I was in the break room buying a Coke Zero. And wouldn’t you know it, but that ding-dong machine ate my quarters. So, I slammed my hands against the glass in a (albeit, embarrassing) fit of rage, and the whole thing came crashing down on me! I didn't even get my Coke Zero!

So I’m writing this as I wait around for someone else to show up to work. Fingers crossed—at least the ones that aren’t broken beneath the shattered glass of this vending machine!

Look, I know what you’re thinking: it's a cliché. There’s no way that whole “it takes more muscles to frown” thing really makes anybody feel any better. But I’ve had a lot of time to think about the proverb ever since this 350-pound vending machine tipped over on me yesterday afternoon, crushing my pelvis and lower body. And I’ve decided that even if something is cliché, it still has the power to have a personal meaning.

That’s pretty insightful! Turns out this little break room “nap” is just what I needed to recharge my batteries! But I still don’t think two broken femurs are the kind of “break” that a break room is for!

They say it takes 43 muscles to frown and 17 muscles to smile. And I’d be willing to bet money it takes dozens of muscles in the arms, legs, and torso to lift this hellish soda monster off of my shattered body. That fact alone should make you crack a little grin. In fact, with that little nugget of inspiration, I am able to lay here, smile, and even take my mind off the excruciating pain and lack of circulation my lower half has experienced for the last 16 hours. Lucky me!

Every 22 minutes, I pass out from the pain!

I must admit, the worst part was when the janitor saw me at 11 PM last night. I had already given up my dignity and was in the middle of soiling myself from beneath this wretched box when he walked past the doorway to the break room, where I lay, covered in feces. And you’re never going to believe this, but that ding-dong custodian gave me one small, sheepish grin, and continued mopping, turning out the lights as I lay here begging for death.

And you know what? It actually felt really good to make the janitor smile while he worked. Science has proven that the simple act of smiling can trick the mind into thinking it’s happy by releasing endorphins. I also heard the brain releases trillions and trillions of endorphins when someone kindly lifts a vending machine off their coworker.

Please. Mike in accounting. Phoebe, my cubicle partner. Surely you can help. Someone.

The art of the smile (book title? maybe I’ll write a book while I’m down here!) is a simple, physical act that can be an easy fix for a poor attitude. Call an ambulance I am starting to taste blood (book title? maybe I’ll write a book while I’m d– oh dear God, I already said that) is a—

I’m sorry. I lost my train of thought. I just regained consciousness mid-sentence. Doesn’t anyone in this godforsaken office building want to come purchase a can of Coke Zero? Please. Discover me. Even if I am dead when you do. Please discover me, and discover me before the rigor mortis sets in.

Oh, dear heavens. I just realized yesterday was Friday. No one will be in the office all weekend.

To whomever finds this on Monday morning;
I am sorry for my incontinence and the humiliating predicament I am in. Please don’t tell my children the condition I was in when you found me. Please tell them I was in a car accident. Or tell them whatever you want.

Don’t tell them it happened like this. Don’t tell them I wrote a degrading scribble of a letter on a dirty napkin as I lay dying, beneath a toppled-over vending machine, begging them not to know about this. Don’t tell them.

Tell them…to smile.

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