High but Thin Walls

Sitting in my cubicle at the ACLU--which D'Souza (silly foreigner) continues to call UCLA, much to my chagrin, and his unending glee--I am reminded of the scene in Office Space where the heavy, high-pitched woman with an unhealthy dose of face paint caking her could-be-beautiful if slimmer face squaking into her constantly ringing phone. There is a boy--I call him this in his skinny jeans and graphic tees--who delivers an ACLU membership spiel with the frequency and fluidity of a humanized robot.

Our cube walls--to call them walls is a misnomer at best being that they are made of some sort of cheap particle board that is covered by even cheaper gray, textured fabric--perhaps partitions would be a better term, are high. My guess 6 feet high. But given that they don't touch the 9-foot ceiling nor do they have doors, what little privacy you accrue visually you lose audibly. So much as a sigh is transmitted with a clarity that rivals THX commercials at your local movie theater.