I am Jane Goodall's Tanzanian monkeys typing about bananas. My fingers are Santa's little helpers. My hope is a sporadic rainfall - yet a torrential downpour in all creative environments. I am Theseus, unspooling golden yarn. Sisyphus, sweating uphill. Bukowski, scribbling away in rooming houses. A river always flowing. I am the nightmare of stagnancy and a God of Imagination.
Monday, December 30, 2002
How's It Feel, Bitch?...
Huh? Nose back to the grindstone yet?
Need some coffee?
That fat whore from QA is still wearing her perfume too strong,
except now she's wearing her new Christmas perfume and it's vanilla-scented.
The obnoxious, fat tech guy is talking too loudly about what he got for Christmas.
Your supervisor left you a fat stack of shit to work through before you even took your coat off.
You are in debt.
There are new rules posted somewhere about...something.
Seeing the Two Towers still did nothing to erase your memory of this place.
Welcome back to work, you fuckers.
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