Sowing the seeds of working late, I suppose
I.
Let’s see:
The mas*chist in every one of us, spinning earthward at 186,282 mps in all our underpaid overworked whitecollar splendor, building up enough caffeine-induced momentum so as to gatecrash through the ramparts of migraines and blurred eyesight at late hours, burning the eight-o’clock pm-oil but hopefully not the midnight one, holding on to that one-only torch of a pristine tomorrow under the Kali Yuga that will probably never happen anyhow: The halcyon yet utopic promise of a loft with all the wood paneling, concealed lighting and fancy stucco works we deserve, also central air-conditioner, with the BMW parked downstairs just a couple of floors beneath the heated swimming pool and the gym. And by god, the totally badass big-screen plasma TV with all the sub-woofers and trimmings and whatnots, too.
There just is a bit of panache in Corporate life, isn’t it?
It gets us going through the thick & thin, man, it really does.
II.
This is what happens whenever I get to disagree with the top management, then get to come up with an unbearable situation where I’m pretty much crushed under their heels for two weeks or so, up until the seeds bear fruit and the need for change kicks in, and guess who wins:
The cocky kid with the long-distance plan always wins, see? I mean, almost always. And in the long-run. And providing his luck doesn’t run out, that is…
Jesus Christ, either we’re all f*cking born without fear or we’re plain addicted to risk, and downright witless to boot, no responsibility at all save for to thrillseek for all eternity.
III.
But that’s OK: First blood went to the management, but dibs on the spoils of the battle are all mine this time.
Problem is, I pretty much wasted an entire day on it and have gotten sooooo freakin’ behind schedule I’m almost scared I’ll miss my deadline for the first time ever, for delivering those reports.
…Almost scared.
Five bucks I get ‘em delivered on time…
IV.
Feels so damn good to be alive. And hyper-active. Like thisssss…
But especially hyper-active anyway.
Refugee from the 20th-century, bipolar, boy-genius in day-glo brain-paint. Wham. Bang. Pow. Crash. Wow!
Dude…
Let’s see:
The mas*chist in every one of us, spinning earthward at 186,282 mps in all our underpaid overworked whitecollar splendor, building up enough caffeine-induced momentum so as to gatecrash through the ramparts of migraines and blurred eyesight at late hours, burning the eight-o’clock pm-oil but hopefully not the midnight one, holding on to that one-only torch of a pristine tomorrow under the Kali Yuga that will probably never happen anyhow: The halcyon yet utopic promise of a loft with all the wood paneling, concealed lighting and fancy stucco works we deserve, also central air-conditioner, with the BMW parked downstairs just a couple of floors beneath the heated swimming pool and the gym. And by god, the totally badass big-screen plasma TV with all the sub-woofers and trimmings and whatnots, too.
There just is a bit of panache in Corporate life, isn’t it?
It gets us going through the thick & thin, man, it really does.
II.
This is what happens whenever I get to disagree with the top management, then get to come up with an unbearable situation where I’m pretty much crushed under their heels for two weeks or so, up until the seeds bear fruit and the need for change kicks in, and guess who wins:
The cocky kid with the long-distance plan always wins, see? I mean, almost always. And in the long-run. And providing his luck doesn’t run out, that is…
Jesus Christ, either we’re all f*cking born without fear or we’re plain addicted to risk, and downright witless to boot, no responsibility at all save for to thrillseek for all eternity.
III.
But that’s OK: First blood went to the management, but dibs on the spoils of the battle are all mine this time.
Problem is, I pretty much wasted an entire day on it and have gotten sooooo freakin’ behind schedule I’m almost scared I’ll miss my deadline for the first time ever, for delivering those reports.
…Almost scared.
Five bucks I get ‘em delivered on time…
IV.
Feels so damn good to be alive. And hyper-active. Like thisssss…
But especially hyper-active anyway.
Refugee from the 20th-century, bipolar, boy-genius in day-glo brain-paint. Wham. Bang. Pow. Crash. Wow!
Dude…
posted by 186282mps at 8:10 AM
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