fluxuscity

So with a certain kind of hollow bravado i leapt forth into the monday, a half-hearted roar fell flat on the workplace linoleum (say it with me folks, lin - ol - lee - ummm. It's a word of tremendous power), my zest for coffee revealed at a miserly 9am.

It seemed as if the day felt slighted by my lack of enthusiasm, and it threw things at me. Things like meetings, where people took a long time to say anything, whole sentences made up of little chestnuts like "um", "ahhh", "yeah no", most of which started with "To me, i feel that..."
Arts administrators, curators, and writers - sometimes i think it's all a big practical joke, like i'm actually a fiction trapped inside the head of Kafka, and he's planning a comedy.

So one must smile, nod, agree that all must do their very best, and frown when other departments imply that they may not be able to provide full technical support, and try not to cry when the budget is revealed.
Next, one must leave the building, walk home (because ones motorbike craps out twenty metres from work), hug the dog, pat the cat, fed the house, and then struggle with whether the pub wouldn't be a bad idea.

I'm just so grateful i have hobbies and y'know, other things in my life - there are people who eat themselves with this kind of shit, start out gnawing the inside of their cheek and end up with cancer.
Sure, i get stressed, but i know when to walk out. No one who listens to Human League suffers from stress - it's a fact, i read it in New Scientist.

i heart ishmael