Sometimes my name is a ringing word in this carpeted vacuum, shouted and giggled and screamed for in desperation and once in a while in the quiet voice of some algerian man cursed with the mutterers disease while he watches me slide from his desk and wander back in the direction of manager's corner, will say just loudly enough and with the barest ennunciation
"wow you're good"
Three hours later when your PKI benchmarking stats are getting cold on your desk and the webkid has been hollering for attention and you know you have to leave early to go fill out more pap�rasses and more pap�rasses for taxes and insurance and my goddamned carte de "canIpleaselivehere"
(and you're back on his desk and your neck is getting sore)
And your sister arrives tomorrow
And the poisoned carbonara is heavy on your stomach
And he asks again talking into his hand, a repeated confirmation of the same answer you've given to every other question in the RFP
You lean back in the unfamiliarly adjusted black space chair you've given up and dragged across the cube, and try to remember how you nearly skipped back across these sober charcoal floors just this morning.
Yes, Igor, I have read your document. Yes, Igor, you have my stamp of approval even though 28 of those tiny print 31 pages are taking from the microsoft administration manual which I will swear upon my mother's grave that I have never read.
It's just a pile of dirt after all.
Val's "monstre kick-in-the-head" cookies are a brilliant idea.
Similar in kind to gosh-I-need-something-short-and-clever-to-read-because-I'm-a-big-dumb-idiot fortune cookies, but filled with the ridiculous caffeine-deprivation insights that only a depraved monstre is capable of, and dyed a horrible purple to remind you that hey, once this colour wears off your mouth and you suddenly looks infinitely less leprous --
-- life ain't so damned hard after all.
"Everything's going too okay in my life, I feel no motivation, I'm so depressed I'm so depressed I'm so depressed it's not fair everything's going right for you"
I'm sorry ch�rie, but if your problems lie along the line of never having had to work too hard for your integrity, of suffering from too many childish decisions, of taking the easy way one too many times, not even the cookies will help. My stomach is turning sad sick sommersaults. I apologize for my lack of compassion. I eat my hand at you.
There will be a gang-green version of the cookie too, where the randomly generated fortune messages will come from a special archive of four letter words.
I miss my fortune program on my linux machines.
This random collection of exhaustion has been brought to you by the slight giggle at a "your voice on the telephone is a magnificent thing" ICQ snippets intended to make me promise to call more often
And
Wanting to hold my princess so desperately in my arms with her clever feet dangling from the floor, as I neared the end of "Le Fabuleux Destin d'Amelie Poulin" and realized that it was beautiful despite my disappointment with the cheap traitement of such an important theme.
But then I take my personal philosophies too seriously, and I will still never submit to a positive assessment of Fight Club, or the cheapening of "Brave New World" that was puked up in the pointlessness of Gattacca.
At least Amelie had a heart that you could hear beating over the noise of a thousand people engrossed in their primetime comedies.