Corporate Bullshit

The corporate structure—a city with rules of its own. Company policies: the commandments of the city of stress. The CEO, the mighty god, with HR as his or her noble disciples.

Enter the foyer—purgatory—before the lifts take you up, leading through the not-so-pearly gates that await you. At last, your fortress appears: stationary supplies, a desk, a lacklustre personal computer. Food crumbs and dead skin cells wedged between the keys of your 2010 Logitech keyboard. A photo of somewhere you’d much rather be glowing on your computer screen.

A tap on the shoulder for being two minutes late by a senior colleague. A smile and a friendly greeting for the manager who strolls in exactly eighteen minutes after. Separate sets of rules. Invisible ladders you’re subliminally told to climb—leading nowhere.

Copious shit-stained noses abound. Grab a wet wipe. The people who wouldn’t look at you once on the street now greet you several times in the hallways or in the bathroom: “Good morning.” “Good afternoon.”

Good riddance, you pests. Bugger off. Let me urinate in peace.