I definitely stole office supplies during my internship
When I was nineteen, the professional world felt like a vast, intimidating labyrinth that I had no map for. I had just landed my first real internship, a role that was supposed to be a golden ticket, but in reality, it felt like being a ghost in a machine. My office was a dull, sprawling maze of beige cubicles, arranged in rows that seemed to go on for miles. The air always hung heavy with the smell of burnt, ancient coffee, a scent that eventually became synonymous with my own boredom. I wanted to impress people, to be seen as the dedicated young go-getter, but the truth was that I felt utterly invisible. I spent most of my days staring at a flickering computer monitor, waiting for someone to give me a task that felt like it mattered. It never happened. I was just there, floating in the background, unnoticed and unappreciated. One day, during a particularly grueling afternoon where the silence of the office was punctuated only by the distant hum of printers, I found myself standing in front of the supply closet. It was a chaotic little room, overflowing with boxes of supplies that the company probably bought in bulk without even thinking. My eyes landed on a fancy, metallic-bodied pen sitting near the edge of a shelf. It looked like it belonged to a high-powered executive rather than a nineteen-year-old intern. Without really thinking about the consequences, I reached out, plucked it from the shelf, and slid it into my pocket. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I walked back to my cubicle, feeling a strange, illicit thrill. When I clicked the pen later that day, the smooth flow of ink on the notepad felt like a small, private victory. It was the first time I felt like I had taken something back from a place that took so much of my time for so little reward. That one pen opened a floodgate. The next day, I grabbed a stack of neon sticky notes. The day after that, it was a box of heavy-duty paperclips. I became a secret kleptomaniac of office stationery. I would wait until the office started to thin out in the late afternoon, listening for the sound of Brenda, my boss, clicking her heels down the hallway toward the breakroom. Brenda was the kind of woman who lived for spreadsheets and procedure, but she was entirely oblivious to her surroundings. I remember her standing at the door of the supply room, hands on her hips, frowning at the half-empty shelves. She would let out a heavy sigh and mutter, Why does this place burn through pens so fast? It is like they just grow legs and walk away. I would be sitting five feet away, my head buried in a report, hiding a smirk behind my hand. I was a master of acting busy. Underneath my desk, I had a canvas bag that I stuffed with my treasures every single evening. I took boxes of highlighters, thick stacks of printer paper, and eventually, even staplers. I felt like a spy on a covert mission. I justified it to myself in the quiet, desperate logic of a teenager. The pay was a joke, and the work was soul-crushingly repetitive. I told myself I was being taxed for my own boredom. If they wouldn't pay me a decent wage, they could pay me in supplies. It felt fair, almost righteous, in a twisted, internal way. By the end of the summer, I had enough office gear to stock a small store. I had enough staplers to set up an entire department. I smuggled the stash home in my backpack, trip by agonizing trip, feeling the heavy clatter of metal against my back each time I boarded the train. When I finally finished the internship, I didn't feel like I had learned much about business, but I had learned a lot about how much stuff you could hide in a closet. I moved those supplies to my parents' house, dumping them into a dusty corner of my childhood closet. Now, when I go back to visit my parents, I occasionally open that closet door. A pile of mismatched pens, rusted staplers, and faded markers stares back at me. I pick one up, turning it over in my hands, and I feel a wave of embarrassment wash over me. It is a strange, hollow feeling. It was never a brave act. I wasn't fighting the system or taking down a corrupt corporation. I was just a nineteen-year-old kid who was lonely, bored, and slightly entitled, taking things I didn't even need from a company that was so large and indifferent that they never actually missed the items. I don't use the supplies now. The ink in the pens has probably dried up, and the sticky notes have lost their adhesive. Yet, I can't seem to throw them away. They act like a weird, plastic time capsule. They are a physical manifestation of a time when I thought stealing office gear was a rebellious act, a way to make a statement in a place that didn't know I existed. I look at those staplers and I just sigh. It is a reminder of how much effort I put into being a petty thief instead of actually figuring out what I wanted to do with my life. It wasn't about the pens, really. It was about needing to feel like I had control over something, even if that something was just a box of paperclips that I never actually used.