I've sunk too deeply into the velvet furniture.

I've read The Onion compilation and almost every magazine at the post-production facility. I'm a quarter of the way into David Hockney's "The Way I See It" and I can't concentrate anymore. There are pool and fooseball tables, but no-one to play with. There is a strange robotic coffee machine that's a sleek variation on the old hot chocolate vending machines from the days when I went to ice skating competitions. But even the novelty of pressing a button and witnessing computerized coffee can't last forever.

The world of advertising post-production is one of office waterfalls and overflowing bowls of candy. The i-mac I am using rests on a desk of warm red wood. My chair seems to be made out of a bewildering arrangement of rattan, leather and bamboo. There are q-tips, contact solution and hair spray in the bathroom, along with the any brand of tampon you might possibly wish for. Menus are suddenly placed in front of me with the prices erased, as eager assistants hover around to take my order on notepads. The notes are then handed off to other assistants, whose designated task is to call restaurants. Last night I was suddenly confronted with a large platter of sashimi and quality Dutch beer, bathed in the blue light of monitors. I was handed chopsticks and a fine linen napkin. "Eat," someone whispered soothingly from the sponge-painted walls. The computer that we did the color correct on was like the motherboard of the starship enterprise. Only New York magazine's article on gay couples with children has given me hope, followed by an emotional plummet as I read an article on The Strokes in Rolling Stone. I am considering defecating on the plush oriental rugs, just to assure myself that I am still human. The small statue of a cow resting next to me, its paint strategically weathered and cracked, silently mouths the word "No."