My brain is wrapped in unformatted text. Documents and official e-mails peppered with funny words and the occasional pause to glare at my CV.
The delectable security guy from the bank wrote me back yesterday, apologizing for having not gotten back sooner and promising to start looking at solutions to the serial port problem.
I thanked him quickly and didn't really expect his seven e-mail forwards of documents and possible solution leads.
I've been working on official work stuff, reading these docs clandestinely, since the company doesn't really want a cheaper, more secure, and more convenient solution. They want to outsource, or just do something really stupid but incredibly convenient.
I'm enjoying the brain-rush that is this searching for answers anyway.
pause while e-mail beeps
Make that eight e-mail forwards. And this last one actually looks interesting.
Tomorrow, I'm going to put my head down and point out all the doubts I'm having with the first seven, and see if I can set up a server to investigate this last one.
In the meantime, I hate my cv.
Last night, I was a tourist in my "own" town. Spinach and cheese crepes at the Creperie de Josselin, tiled decor and carvings of the Chateau de Josselin right above our heads. Talk of cryptography and why french men can't just be friends with a chick without making them ill with bad lines and attempts to put hands on thighs.
We wandered the streets, after, passing from the 6eme to the 14eme, passing Cristal's neighbourhood, passing neon-lit areas interrupted by looming stone buildings, some nearly as majestic as the Rue de Saules.
Approaching the catacombs, I suggested we sit and continue our casual bickering in the mouth of the stairs leading down.
We talked of drugs and polygamy and Amsterdam and sitting where I'd once stood in line with David I was overtaken by wistfulness to be wandering those catacombs again, reading the morbid poetry, hurried by the guardians who wanted to close up for the evening.
My mind wandered as we chatted comfortably of nothing, and I wished for a bottle of cheap wine to go with the backpacking-tourist moment.
Instead we climbed down into the metro, and the cramps didn't hit unti I got home.
Nauseous and aching to bow my head to the porcelain god, I would have cursed femininity if I'd had the strength.
But it wouldn't have been honest anyway.