The Keyboard-Crested Number Monkey; Or Mommas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Typists

I was sitting at work the other day when it occurred to me how horribly futile my work life has become.
You can imagine my surprise.
Had I shown any previous incarnation of myself my current workload, I would’ve laughed me out of the room.
Observe the Keyboard-Crested Number Monkey. She didn’t used to wear a keyboard on her head, but since it’s always on her mind in one form or another she’s gotten quite literal about it and now insists it’s a hat.
She has also begun to refer to herself in the third-person. An attempt to distance herself from the action, no doubt.
She apologizes for this.
Her behind, expanded to the width of her chair, her pupils fixed and dilated, she spends her time developing carpal tunnel in exchange for medical benefits, a catch-22 style loop that ensures both wrist issues and the prescriptions for the anti-inflammatory drugs needed to treat them.
Someone should warn the next generation.
Don’t do it, kids! If someone asks you if you can make coffee, tell them you’re allergic to coffee grounds. If someone suggests that you work in an office “just to make a little extra cash”, tell them you never learned the alphabet, was once traumatized by a collating machine. Tell them you have a creeping case of Tourette’s and cannot guarantee obscenity-free documents.
We’ve all heard it before, but maybe it’s time we took it in, drank deeply of the cup and chanted it into the night:
Friends don’t let friends type.