JOURNAL | The Fishy Tragedy: A Late-Night Disaster in Corporate Hell

It’s 10 p.m., and you’ve just left the office—well, “escaped” might be the better word. You’ve been there so long that the janitors have already done their rounds *twice.* And no, you’re not one of those people who carries a sleek little laptop that fits nicely into a bag. Oh no. You have a full-on desktop setup—keyboard, mouse, *the works*. Because apparently, *someone* in IT thought, “You know what this person needs? A device that weighs as much as their hopes and dreams.” By the time you get home, it’s 11 p.m. You’re tired, you’re hungry, and you’re dreaming of sitting down, eating your dinner, and maybe staring at a wall for an hour in existential exhaustion. 

But no. This night has other plans.

At 11:30 p.m., you stand in front of your door, the realization dawning upon you like the worst plot twist ever. You left your keys at the office. The office. The one you just hauled a desktop away from. 

You drop the fish and rice in shock (don’t worry, you save it before it touches the ground), and frantically search through your bag. Maybe, just maybe, there’s another key! But alas, it’s not your lucky day. The office now holds the keys to your kingdom.

Now, you’re faced with a grim decision: return to the cold, sterile office that you were so desperate to escape from, or spend the night in the hallway with nothing but your desktop to comfort you. Spoiler: the desktop offers no comfort.

So, you do what any rational person in the throes of a personal crisis would do—you call a cab at midnight. The cab driver picks you up and doesn’t even ask questions because it’s late, and he’s seen worse. But you’re dying inside. How did it come to this? A midnight cab ride to retrieve keys you never should have left behind, while your fish and rice sit next to you, growing colder by the second, much like your dwindling hope for this night.

At 12:30 a.m., you retrieve your keys from the office, which feels even more soul-sucking at this hour. Your desk—your desktop-less desk—sits there, taunting you. You grab the keys and leave without looking back, because honestly, if you never see that place again, it’ll be too soon.

Then, you walk home. Yes, you walk. At this point, a second cab ride feels like admitting total defeat. Your fish and rice are long cold, your feet are screaming, and your soul? It's left your body. By the time you drag yourself through the front door at 1 a.m., you’re too tired to even look at the fish, let alone eat it.

You collapse onto your bed, questioning every life choice that led you here. The fish and rice sit on the table, mocking you. It’s past midnight, your feet are in agony.

Moral of the Story: Life is a tragedy, and sometimes, even fish and rice can’t save you from the cruel, cruel fate of forgetting your keys. Next time? I’m ordering pizza.