Someone ran their finger along my leg and I heard them giggle incessantly to themselves for about five minutes. I then felt their pointy instrument of torture, filled with what I can only assume was some kind of Hell-fluid, trace along my arm, making it stick out at an uncomfortable angle- very much as though I was going to fly, or hail down a taxi, or strike some elderly lady over the head with a broken bottle. It was getting to be one of those days, where at one moment your arm’s sticking one way, and then the other, and all of a sudden you’re whacking old ladies over the head- we all know the sort. The source of the inane giggling then put some slippers on my feet, which I must admit was actually rather nice of them, and then all of a sudden I was able to see… for the very first time in my life. I beheld what I immediately thought was Hell, and the huge arse which I suddenly seemed to have attached to me, tensed up ever so slightly with fear.
My vision was beyond excellent, perhaps on account of the fact that my eyeballs appeared to make up approximately two thirds of my face. I looked at the giggling girl in front of me, some corpulent monstrosity with a bow in her hair to attempt to distract any onlookers from the fact that her breasts were hairier than Santa’s arse crack . My position of course had been designated at the optimum height to see all the way down her blouse, past the hairy sacks of duck fat and horseradish, right down to her navel, where I am quite sure not-of-this-Earth monsters were looking back at me. More likely it could have just been pubes however, but thus my life had begun; a stick-man, drawn leisurely on the white board of an office filled with paperclips, self-loathing and creatures which slightly resembled manbearpig constructs. My creator ambled back to her seat and pulled the pants from betwixt her arse cheeks as she sat down. My task was now clear, I would bear witness to this daily ritual, I would become the seer of all. I was to be the most artistic creation in the entire office environment, the friendly neighbourhood stick man with the massive arse, designed like that of a man-yeti.
The weeks passed and I would watch the sunrise each day, feel the warmth steal across my inked form, before it subsided into the horizon again and my fleshed companions would leave and go home for the day. None would take very much notice of me, either being too busy to notice me staring intently at them, or too lazy to get up and remove me from the board. Sometimes numbers would surround me, or the fat girl in Cubicle 13 would come to the stationary cupboard beneath me and push pencils into her bra unaware that I was watching her every move. I liked to think she would go home and sell them on eBay, or at the very least, was trying to single-handedly trying to bring the company down from the inside by stealing stationary and the suchlike. I did hear one guy from Cubicle 10 comment that perhaps she was taking them home to feed on, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to believe that- especially when he explicitly wanted to emphasise that she was feeding them into her vagina. I wasn’t the sort of stick man to take pleasure in that sort of talk.
From my lofty view point, I saw many things take place. There was the man who stole the other man’s lunch every day, but then tried to deny it and blame the new dude in Cubicle 5. The gentleman in Cubicle 5 had never stolen a lunch in his life, but did pick his nose in the plain view of the lady in Cubicle 17. The lady in Cubicle 17 was much too polite to say anything, but in turn annoyed the man in Cubicle 2 by scraping her yogurt pots until his misophonia caused him to run screaming from the room into the toilets. Cubicle 18 then took it upon himself to start the rumour that it was Cubicle 2 who was always blocking up the toilets with his aborted foetuses, while the lady in Cubicle 6 agreed whole-heartedly and took another visit into the toilet to go and investigate. She had blood dripping behind her as she walked back to her chair, but blamed this on the creepy caretaker with the lazy eye who had forks for fingers who resided around the area of Cubicle 8. There wasn’t anyone there who could question this, as he did have forks for fingers, though he always said it was just because on his wage he wasn’t able to afford melon hands- the height of style for the fashion-conscious amputee.
My short life would of course come to an end however, in the way that all office-related business must come to an end, with a helping of a cock and balls. The two young men from Cubicles 23 and 24 thought it would be hilarious to craft my head into the end of a penis, and then they drew some hairy balls at either side of my reshaped body, guffawing as they did so. It would be many more weeks before the girl in Cubicle 22, the lady with the hairy breasts who drew me, noticed my degradation. And upon this day she wept bitterly into her instant porridge, and was consoled gratuitously by the post-it note with a dog on it, given to her by Cubicle 3. It was the nicest dog post-it note her lard-covered eyes had ever seen.