Working the nightshift

August 12, 2006

I don’t know if my balls are getting bigger, or my hands are getting smaller; either way the growing disparity between the two is begining to alarm me. I’m not big on body image, but a little consistency and symmetry would be appreciated. Maybe I should just start choking people now while it’s still a viable option; I don’t need some dude laughing at my tiny hands as I pinch futilely at his neck. It’s probably my balls anyways, or the nightshift playing games with my head.

Twelve hours straight of being a nocturnal desk anchor has a peculiar effect on my psyche. My already limited professionalism recedes and I am left in a state approaching office feral. I slept six hours last night in a burrow under my desk I constructed from blankets, pillows, and stray clothing gathered from the cubes of co-workers. The rest was fitful and filled with dreamlets more suited to a sweat lodge vision quest than a call centre environment. My spirit walked the lands of the ancestors while my body mumbled helpdesk sutras; I got halfway through a call before I realized it wasn’t actually my inner doubt that wanted a password reset. I then got paranoid that the cramp in my leg was caused by malicious security guards so I turned off my monitor to throw them off the trail.

I almost posted a half dozens things when it occured to me that I now have the power to simultaneously drunk dial a vast faceless school of ex girlfriend proxies. There are certain states of mind that are best suited to limited communicational avenues. I shudder to think of the maudlin break up poetry that could have been unleashed upon the world had I discovered blogging earlier. Let me give you a taste:

Some notions are so laden with hurt they leave only guarded stillness in their wake.Every thought, every feeling, eddying around them with careful forbearance, chest bursting with held breathe.It amazing the weight nothing can gather given time and due avoidance. How insidiously thick unsaid things can become, leaching meaning all the while to remain unreal.If it was real then it would break you, so its not, its anything else As long as it remains nameless it’s remains apart, just a formless ache Needing nothing dear to sustain it. Wasted on the grim periphery of thought the notion fades. Blameless, harmless, and unchanged, just like you.
That is some depressing shit, and this place would have be rife with state of the disunion addresses like that. Jay likely would have been pulled down into the mire with me and started posting Coldplay videos, and pictures of angels with their wings torn off. Just a bad scene all round.

The sun is rising and I just ate two microwave quesadillas. It’s like crispy cheese and relish cooked inside a dried up paper hat. I was glad to have it. When I get home I’m going to pack myself one of them fancy boy lunches, the kind with napkins and apples. It’s going to be a long night tonight.

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