Dullest temp job ever

On November 19 2010 03:38 JackMcCoy wrote:
Two summers ago I worked in a lab as an assistant during some weird clinical trials. They were testing this depression medication on rats and basically it was my job to just watch the rats. At first it was a little stupid to basically just be a rat babysitter or something, but it was not hard and I made much more money than any of my friends working at a supermarket or retail store. I would watch the rats for most of the day except for a few times where they would rotate into the lab for testing and evaluations. At first I took everything very seriously and would diligently watch the rats for every minute I was there, but after a week or so I started to learn when I could slack off a bit and read comics or doodle.

But you can only mess around with those things for so long, and with 8 hour shifts every day like this, I needed to start finding ways to occupy my mind or else I would surely bore myself into a catatonic state. I don’t know where the original idea came from, but I started to create a little fantasy world where the rats were like people living in this strange rat society. I gave them all names, and slowly started to notice their distinct personalities. I would make up jobs, relationships and interactions between this society of rats, and act out elaborate plays with them during the day. It turned out to be a wildy fascinating game, and the days started to fly by. I actually started enjoying my work and looking forward to each new work day.

I had elected rat politicians, rat beauty queens and rat criminals. The more I played, the more real the game seemed. I was at a point where I could recognize each rat immediately on sight, which was no small feat considering their population numbered near 200. I started noticing that their personalities were becoming more actualized as it went along. It was almost as if the rats were playing the roles I’d assigned them. They were playing the game too.

I was completely hooked into this world by now. I was offering to work overtime at the lab whenever I could. I would avoid my friends and claim I was called in to work, when the truth was I was the one calling them to see if I could go in. I even volunteered to be there on days when I wasn’t getting paid. I would show up when the lab opened and stay until the last researcher left at night. I think some of them were skeptical of why I was there so much, but I would pretend that I loved learning all about the science that took place in the lab. I hated science. I was there for my friends, the rats.

One day, I arrived in to work and instantly noticed something was wrong. Ferguson, one of the more charismatic and handsome rats, wasn’t among the group during the “inventory” phase of the morning. It was too early for him to be having his tests, so I grew alarmed. When I asked one of the head researchers, he told me that Ferguson, or “Number 44” had died the night before by battering his head against the metal rails of the cage. He had committed suicide! The scientist sort of laughed and dismissed this notion, saying that rats can’t commit suicide, they just die. He didn’t understand that they were like us. They had feelings and problems and joy and pain just like us. It was that damned medicine they were feeding them. It had pushed Ferguson over the edge, and turned a once carefree and outgoing rat into a suicide statistic. I begged them to stop the regiments of medicine, but they didn’t understand what I was saying. One of the bosses decided that it was probably better if I didn’t work there anymore and basically fired me. He said it was because the tests were nearly over, but I knew that it was because they thought I was crazy. I was too young, too stupid to make them understand.

As I got set to leave near the end of my last day, I overheard two younger scientists discussing the “disposal protocol”. I thought they were talking about a burial service for Ferguson, but then I realized they were talking about all the rats. The tests would run their course and the rats were to be “destroyed”. DESTROYED? These were not used batteries or broken electronics to be smashed or thrown away. They were living, breathing, loving creatures who had a whole society of actors, mothers, milkmen and doctors. And here were these “enlightened” scientists gearing up to perform sanctioned genocide. I begged them to let me take the rats at the end of the study but they simply refused, on the grounds that it was unsafe and, according to one particular smart ass, “so creepy”.

I knew I had to take action. That night I broke into the lab using a keycard I’d taken off a desk earlier that day. I rounded all the rats up into one of the larger cages and put it into the wheelbarrow I’d taken from the shed at home. There was no security, no flashing alarms, and I calmly walked out with my friends, saving them from certain death. When we were far enough from the facility, I opened the cage to let them walk free. I know they didn’t mind the cage, but I’m certain they would prefer the freedom. Then the most horrible thing happened. Emilia, one of my least favorite of the rats due to her obnoxious personality and tendency to put the other rats down, gnashed out and bit my hand as I released the latch. The screeched out of the cage and, to my horror and dismay, the other rats followed, scattering as they hit the pavement and vanishing from sight in mere seconds. They’d left me behind. I’d risked so much for them, I was even willing to leave home just to be with them, and they left me behind. I sat down on the ground and pulled Ferguson’s body from my jacket pocket. I’d seen his carcass sitting in a metal tray next to a small furnace, no doubt to be cremated after his final examination.

I started to pick pieces of skin and fur off the body, placing them into my mouth and chewing them until I could bear to swallow, the taste obscured by the hot tears that poured down my face. I wanted to consume him, and in doing so, consume the darkness that took him. I wanted to eat the evil that destroyed him in the hopes that it would destroy me too. They found me in the morning, passed out on the grass, my face covered in blood. I didn’t even try to explain it. They brought me to an institution where some nice people tried to talk to me and get me to open up, but I knew there was no point. These were the same humans that would wipe out a whole society of my friends. Or, who I thought were my friends. I didn’t belong in either world. Abandoned by both, I’m no one. Sometimes I want to batter my head against the wall and just die, but I was never as brave as Ferguson. He was the best of them. He was the best of all of us.

Hope your job works out better than mine.

On November 19 2010 03:38 JackMcCoy wrote:
Two summers ago I worked in a lab as an assistant during some weird clinical trials. They were testing this depression medication on rats and basically it was my job to just watch the rats. At first it was a little stupid to basically just be a rat babysitter or something, but it was not hard and I made much more money than any of my friends working at a supermarket or retail store. I would watch the rats for most of the day except for a few times where they would rotate into the lab for testing and evaluations. At first I took everything very seriously and would diligently watch the rats for every minute I was there, but after a week or so I started to learn when I could slack off a bit and read comics or doodle.

But you can only mess around with those things for so long, and with 8 hour shifts every day like this, I needed to start finding ways to occupy my mind or else I would surely bore myself into a catatonic state. I don’t know where the original idea came from, but I started to create a little fantasy world where the rats were like people living in this strange rat society. I gave them all names, and slowly started to notice their distinct personalities. I would make up jobs, relationships and interactions between this society of rats, and act out elaborate plays with them during the day. It turned out to be a wildy fascinating game, and the days started to fly by. I actually started enjoying my work and looking forward to each new work day.

I had elected rat politicians, rat beauty queens and rat criminals. The more I played, the more real the game seemed. I was at a point where I could recognize each rat immediately on sight, which was no small feat considering their population numbered near 200. I started noticing that their personalities were becoming more actualized as it went along. It was almost as if the rats were playing the roles I’d assigned them. They were playing the game too.

I was completely hooked into this world by now. I was offering to work overtime at the lab whenever I could. I would avoid my friends and claim I was called in to work, when the truth was I was the one calling them to see if I could go in. I even volunteered to be there on days when I wasn’t getting paid. I would show up when the lab opened and stay until the last researcher left at night. I think some of them were skeptical of why I was there so much, but I would pretend that I loved learning all about the science that took place in the lab. I hated science. I was there for my friends, the rats.

One day, I arrived in to work and instantly noticed something was wrong. Ferguson, one of the more charismatic and handsome rats, wasn’t among the group during the “inventory” phase of the morning. It was too early for him to be having his tests, so I grew alarmed. When I asked one of the head researchers, he told me that Ferguson, or “Number 44” had died the night before by battering his head against the metal rails of the cage. He had committed suicide! The scientist sort of laughed and dismissed this notion, saying that rats can’t commit suicide, they just die. He didn’t understand that they were like us. They had feelings and problems and joy and pain just like us. It was that damned medicine they were feeding them. It had pushed Ferguson over the edge, and turned a once carefree and outgoing rat into a suicide statistic. I begged them to stop the regiments of medicine, but they didn’t understand what I was saying. One of the bosses decided that it was probably better if I didn’t work there anymore and basically fired me. He said it was because the tests were nearly over, but I knew that it was because they thought I was crazy. I was too young, too stupid to make them understand.

As I got set to leave near the end of my last day, I overheard two younger scientists discussing the “disposal protocol”. I thought they were talking about a burial service for Ferguson, but then I realized they were talking about all the rats. The tests would run their course and the rats were to be “destroyed”. DESTROYED? These were not used batteries or broken electronics to be smashed or thrown away. They were living, breathing, loving creatures who had a whole society of actors, mothers, milkmen and doctors. And here were these “enlightened” scientists gearing up to perform sanctioned genocide. I begged them to let me take the rats at the end of the study but they simply refused, on the grounds that it was unsafe and, according to one particular smart ass, “so creepy”.

I knew I had to take action. That night I broke into the lab using a keycard I’d taken off a desk earlier that day. I rounded all the rats up into one of the larger cages and put it into the wheelbarrow I’d taken from the shed at home. There was no security, no flashing alarms, and I calmly walked out with my friends, saving them from certain death. When we were far enough from the facility, I opened the cage to let them walk free. I know they didn’t mind the cage, but I’m certain they would prefer the freedom. Then the most horrible thing happened. Emilia, one of my least favorite of the rats due to her obnoxious personality and tendency to put the other rats down, gnashed out and bit my hand as I released the latch. The screeched out of the cage and, to my horror and dismay, the other rats followed, scattering as they hit the pavement and vanishing from sight in mere seconds. They’d left me behind. I’d risked so much for them, I was even willing to leave home just to be with them, and they left me behind. I sat down on the ground and pulled Ferguson’s body from my jacket pocket. I’d seen his carcass sitting in a metal tray next to a small furnace, no doubt to be cremated after his final examination.

I started to pick pieces of skin and fur off the body, placing them into my mouth and chewing them until I could bear to swallow, the taste obscured by the hot tears that poured down my face. I wanted to consume him, and in doing so, consume the darkness that took him. I wanted to eat the evil that destroyed him in the hopes that it would destroy me too. They found me in the morning, passed out on the grass, my face covered in blood. I didn’t even try to explain it. They brought me to an institution where some nice people tried to talk to me and get me to open up, but I knew there was no point. These were the same humans that would wipe out a whole society of my friends. Or, who I thought were my friends. I didn’t belong in either world. Abandoned by both, I’m no one. Sometimes I want to batter my head against the wall and just die, but I was never as brave as Ferguson. He was the best of them. He was the best of all of us.

Hope your job works out better than mine.