I sit here, in the stuffy, cramped, poorly lit waiting room that stinks of passed gas and desperation. The drab walls are covered in old posters, they look as though they came with the building. Torn, creased posters of a time gone by. Taped up and taped over with each successive room owner. Between coughs, burps and the occasional gasp of pain, all you can really hear is the soft murmur of far off voices, hidden down the long hall, behind a beaten up partition of dubious make. The neon lights are buzzing, the quality of air in here is making me uncomfortable. Why are there no windows? Why are there no vents? Why did I wear such a heavy jacket, there’s never anywhere to hang it, and I’m sweating through my shirt. I’m increasingly aware of the unpleasant aroma emanating from my work shoes. Blessed with foul smelling feet, halitosis and psoriasis. Even though everyone here is lost in their own pain or suffering, I feel everyone’s eyes upon me, flickering back an forth, from flat out stares to furtive glances. I fucking hate it here.
A printer chimes to life, and a warm slip of paper pops out, only the flop to the floor. The receptionist is no where to be seen. A pile of papers has begun to form. I fucking hate it here. “What was that?” The elderly lady beside me who reeks of death quietly asks, her hot sickly breath filling my face, eeking it’s way into my lungs. I feel as though I can taste her. “Hmmm. What? Nothing. Nothing.” I squirm in my soft pleather seat, hating the soreness in my back and the ache between my shoulder blades. My hair has started to mat to my head in the places that static hasn’t made it stand up on end. The heat in here is oppressive. The printer comes alive – again, more papers flit to the floor. We are all unattended.
Greatwall Studios Graphic Design 