The Unhappy Little Cog

I'm just a cog. That's it. Small and apparently unimportant. And I'm sick to fucking death of it.
Working on the floor you tend to see things, understand things, notice things that people who work at a fucking desk don't see. It's hard to see anything when you're to fucking lazy to get off your ass and walk over to the stacks, I understand. That's why every now and again I mention things or send an email. It's not just because I love the sound of my own voice (I don't actually, I always think I have a weird voice) or that I love writing emails (I actually have a few other things I like doing better). I do it because, silly me, I thought I might actually be able to make a difference or fix a problem.
But no. I'm just a fucking cog.
Two years ago, TWO FUCKING YEARS AGO I sent a series of emails begging and pleading for something to be done about the graphic novel shelving unit. I got a number of flimsy, bullshit excuses. Nothing was done. Now someone higher up has finally noticed the problem. So it's being fixed, right? No. They're considering it.
Two fucking years later and they're considering it.
It's unsafe. It's overflowing. And it's wrecking the fucking books. You'd think that if nothing else, they'd want to save themselves a few bucks on replacing things their own shelving is thrashing.
So we're supposed to leave it. Because if it breaks then they'll have to replace it. Let's not mention the fact that if... make that when it breaks it will most likely hurt one of the patrons or one of the staff. But what does that matter. The only staff that goes over there on a regular basis is us. The chimps.
I'd love to say that this is the only thing that is pissing me off, that this is the only thing that's wrong around here. But it's not. It's not even close.
But they'll continue heaping on the bullshit by the shovel full until they crush us or we leave in disgust.