Short weeks rock.
I was wallow
ing in a general funk
this morning. I started thinking about what to daylog. How to fill this little channel for venting
and cursing my foes
. Somebody switched the keys on my keyboard this morning
. A quick trip to www.cmm.con
showed me that. It is to laugh
. I pried the keys off
the keyboard, this little altar at which I sacrifice my youth for money
Then I sat back, looked around, and laughed.
This is all so absurd
. I get paid to bang bits in to shapes
. This entire existence is insane
. It is as pointless a task as has ever been done.
My mind is a playhouse. I sat daydreaming over the first part of this entry. Let me paint you a picture:
I am a lowly scribe sitting at my easel, over-looking a vast array of soldiers. They are dressed in the most dazzling array of Feudal Japanese armor
, sparkling in the sun like diamonds
My task? Count the barrels of rice
. Write the numbers
in dark black ink onto sheets that will fade into time, unread and unimportant.
The General assures me my work is essential, that I help preserve the Empire.
I pen a little note.
Screw you General Funk