It's only a few more working days left in the year and everyone at BofA is running around frantically, trying to do as much as they can get as much into the books as they can. Which makes me want to work even more slowly than I already am. I dream of somehow throwing the whole machine out of whack. Of being the cog that undoes the corporate wheel.

I think I can do it. I handle thousands of dollars a day and put it into the bank's coffers. Just a zero here or a zero there, a click of the enter button here or the failure to do it there, and viola. And the year will come to a close and the accounts won't make any sense and the bank won't know what's up and everything gets all screwed up. In the confusion, the bank can't issue statements about profits or losses and the stock takes a dive as investors get nervous. Executives panic and the Corporate PR department spins into overtime. The bank starts to fall apart and anarchy ensues.

And I will be discovered as the culprit. I will be found out and the charges are made. I tell the press that I did it for all the people BofA laid off over the years, despite record profits. And for all the customers of the bank who constantly get reamed over mysterious ATM charges. And I also did it for all the dot-com workers who slaved away at 80 hour a week jobs only to see them lose it all because their bosses blew it all on foozball tables, launch parties and the hiring of their frat brothers as Corporate Vice-President's. And for all the people who got screwed by Enron, the poor people who lost their retirement accounts as the executives scammed their way into million dollar bonuses.

I will become a folk-hero. A Robin-Hood for the recession, an icon for these dark financial times. Pundits will debate me, essays will be written about me,
blow-hard talk-show hosts will harangue me and blame it all on me being from San Francisco. I will be featured on "Nightline" and during a debate with George Will, I will tell him what he can do with his bow-tie. John Ashcroft will denounce me as a domestic terrorist and in response, I issue a press-release with just two words on it: "bite me." On TRL Live, I will tell thousands of screaming girls that while I may be only a mere temp, at least I didn't lose an election to a dead person. The tabloids will be full of stories about how Pamela Anderson cheated on Kid Rock with me or how Julia Roberts is now in love with me. All of which won't be true as they'll completely miss my torrid affair with Natalie Portman. People Magazine will declare me as one of the "25 Most Intriguing People of the Year" and Barbara Walters will pay me thousands of dollars to interview me.

I will be arrested and thrown into minimum security prison where I'll work on my golf game, watch cable tv all day, and know I'll pretty much not have to worry about getting a job for awhile. Rappers will give me their props, rock stars will hold benefits for me, and activists will protest in my name. I will make millions on a book deal and then parlay that millions into millions more from all the stock tips I will have garnered while at prison. And a movie will be made about me starring Jason Biggs and Sarah Michelle Gellar will play my girl-friend. When I get out, I will be rich, famous, and a national hero.

I am really bored at work and I hate my job.