Employee #4729, is that you?
Well, it’s you!
It’s your work ID badge.
You used to brandish me like a sword at a couple of very specific doors. I’m not sure what happened, but I’m lost in your junk drawer.
Anyways, the uncapped Sharpie is getting me high, so I need to make this quick.
Sometime in March, I began a painful descent from your belt clip to your wallet to your coffee table tray that holds your keys to your junk drawer in the kitchen. And now I’m stuck behind a soggy pack of spearmint.
You got to get me out of here. It’s a filthy Toy Story sequel. The fidget spinners are bugging out, your backup USB cord is strangling a pack of matches, and I’m getting creepy vibes from the Tommy Bahama coupons. It’s eerie. And a bit dangerous. The push pins are feasting on a stress ball, the stapler just cornered a set of Ikea instructions, and there’s an escalating feud between a rusty nail file and a plastic fork. I may need to pick a side soon.
And let’s be clear: there are no good sides. This is a lost-and-found for every mediocre decision you’ve ever made. I’m writing this on an unused postcard from Daytona Beach with the last bit of ink from a free Coldwell Banker pen. If I write again, it’ll be on the back of your Smash Mouth tickets from August. I’ve been in a staring contest with Dr. Samson’s business card since June, and my only sustenance is a leaky McDonald’s ketchup packet.
Employee #4729, if you’re reading this…
I’M BEGGING YOU.
PLEASE GET ME OUT OF HERE.
I’m an identification badge, dammit. I’m the gatekeeper of, well, gates. I should be out there, keeping tabs on workplace attendance. Why am I here? This junk drawer is a death sentence. My days are numbered by a mini calendar with 2017’s cutest cats and it’s not looking pretty. My ink is starting to fade and I’m worried that you’ll soon confuse me for your expired Denny’s gift card. I’ve spent the last seven months drinking my sorrows away with the alcohol in your knock-off brand hand sanitizer, and I can’t take it anymore.
Maybe you got laid off.
Maybe you quit.
Maybe your workplace started using that eye-scanning technology.
But this is no way to treat your friends, man.
I may be a workplace ID badge, but I’m also a badge of honor.
And I don’t know if these are the Sharpie fumes talking, but I’ll leave you with this:
Give me liberty or give me a quick death with a snip of the squiggly scissors.