May 21, 2003

Ever get the feeling that life is a vast arid wasteland populated only by small, leathery, water-hoarding lizards that live under hot rocks and are just waiting for night to fall so that they can pounce on you and suck all your precious bodily fluids out through their hollow, needle-sharp teeth?

No?

Oh, well never mind then.

In other news, it is raining and gray, and the view from the 42nd floor of the Multinational Corporate Monstrosity Building is of a few shorter, nearby buildings against a blank screen of oqaque gray nothingness. But I know that this is just because they're overhauling the Matrix image processors for my sector this morning, so they've got to cut down on my view distance until they're back up.

Meanwhile, I'm sucking down the Terrible Flavia (and no, my office isn't the same, but I liked it the way it was, you European purveyors of evil mechanized pseudojava), trying vainly to get a caffeine buzz on so that I can rustle up even the vaguest semblance of motivation. I got nothin'. I'm tapped out. Fagged and fashed, as it were. Bedways is rightways, but it's barely lunchtime and I've spent all morning slaving over a hot laminating machine and working the infernal paper guillotine.

I am, essentially, doing the same sorts of things that I was doing eight years ago, only now I make six times as much for doing them. That's a good thing, although I have not yet expressed the frugality gene supposedly inherited from my mother, so I'm not sitting on the piles of cash that I should be. That's not such a good thing, but I'm working on it.

The more things change, the more they stay the same. Confronted with the Amazing Expanding Waistline (courtesy of Paxil! Your fattening antidote to the Intolerable Futility of Modern Life! When you have the vague sense that your soul is dying, Paxil is there! Also available in grape and cherry flavor.), and the hairline heading ever-northwards (age, it seems, is a process of expansion and retreat), I feel the urge to do. To produce, to make, to create. This urge then runs headlong into the hard neuro-psychological wall of depression and falls unconscious to the ground. D'oh! Stupid personality.

All of which is a rather long, roundabout way of saying that I've really got nothing to say today, but that my fingers needed some limbering up, so I typed some stuff.

Have a nice day, buh-bye!