I print stuff for a living.
Well…I do more than that,
but the gist of what I do is…
I print stuff for a living.
I am a production manager for a local print shop and, unlike most of America, I truly love my job.
I get to screen print quirky paraphrases on t-shirts and open people’s eyes to a world of possibilities in CMYK.
I get to collate scattered dreams into a nicely packaged booklet so that it makes sense to everyone who reads it.
I get to spiral bind ideologies into reality.
And I get to lower the opacity of disillusioned emotions, but only if it’s necessary.
I get to design identities on 16 point matte business cards, or gloss if that’s your preference,
and I get to to raise the bar of quality of life to 1200 dots per inch.
But I…
I especially get to photocopy people’s ideas and have the joy of calling them on plagiarism when need be.
I get to perforate my customer’s theories,
so they can tear them apart when things don’t add up.
I have a blade that can slice up to 500 sheets of hatred
and a trashcan where I can dump those hostile personalities into.
I have an oversized printer that can expose the phonies for who they are and hammer grommets at each corner so they can be hung where everyone can see them.
See…
We’d rather take our Photoshop Magic Wands and delete the blemishes of what makes us human.
Use our Healing Tools to merge the doctored layers with who we really are, so we can save maximum quality jpegs and mount those on stretched canvases.
Frame them nicely snugged and present those for all to see.
We order carbon copies of these images in hopes to make a name for ourselves.
We leave no room for the imagination because we’ve Command Z’d all of our insecurities, pasted on someone else’s identity, and rasterized multiple objects to become whoever we want to be at the click of a mouse.
See…I print stuff for a living.
But you…
You make stuff up.
Afraid of being alone for the rest of your life.
Afraid of not being pretty enough.
Afraid of not being wanted.
Afraid of the truth.
See…I print stuff for a living.
And, quite honestly, I liked you when you first came in.
Dust all underneath your left index finger.
Hair not quite parted right.
Your crooked smile exposing the cilantro between you’re teeth, telling me you had a burrito for lunch.
Listen…
You were fearfully and wonderfully made.
You are just as you’re supposed to be.
You’re better than you think you are.
You’re worth Jesus’ life.
You’re perfect.
See…I print stuff for a living and we’re no different you and me.
Created in my image and likeness, yeah, I knew what I was doing.
So redo the undo and be…
You.
derrickengoy.us 