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Saturday, 23 May 2015

Don't cha

Don't you just hate it when people make your life miserable?
I was doing nothing and planning to do even less. Docked at my desolate desk, dreaming dark, deceptive dreams. I couldn't get anywhere though, something in the back of my head kept on objecting. They make it so obvious in movies, a white angel on one shoulder, a red devil on the other and they fight it out. Genuine dialog, arguments, for and against, and there is a resolution as they both disappear in a puff of smoke. But now it was just a mindless block, popping up from nowhere, barely noticeable. Just a feeling, "Look, he's at it again!". A mere hint of my troubles and a faint reminder of the vagueness of my abilities.
Then these two descended on me. Normally they could hardly muster a hello but now they were joyous and friendly. They would call it magnanimous.
'Come on Azeu, just this time. Everyone's off sick or on holiday. You are our only savior. You must write this.' I didn't even know what the story was, something trivial, gold-pooping baby or gold-toothed crazy. I wasn't interested.
'No, no, I can't do it.'
'Sure you can! And remember, you've only written 11 articles so far.'
'Yeah, but most of them stretched to two or three pages. Usually articles only cover a fraction of a page, you shouldn't judge this by numbers.'
'Exactly! So this shouldn't be a problem.'
I wasn't sure what did they refer to, so I just asked. 
'In how many words?' Both of them looked at me, with strange amazement in their eyes. I felt a pleasant, warm feeling rush to my head; I said something that was actually heard. So I added: 'Yeah, I need to know that, right? That's how this whole thing works. Also, it would help to know on which page it will appear, you know, for the tone, the mood of it.'
But I overdid it. The second trick always kills the one trick pony, and the little workhorse suddenly becomes an annoying overachiever.
'We'll get back to you,' they said, with their usual dismay, and left. But they didn't, until yesterday when I received a text message. I must write it and hand it in early on Monday. 400 words. I still wasn't exactly sure what the topic was. Reluctantly I replied, asking for more info. 'LOL! I'll fill you in tomorrow.' That's typical, how can I write it by tomorrow morning if they send me the details in the afternoon?
Don't you just hate it when fools make your life hell? The only way out was getting to the office early and going through the facts in the system. The trains were on strike, though they were still selling tickets online. So here I am, walking down a dark road at 4am, my path winding along discrete poodles of puke. Bellow the golden arches the food was fast asleep while the seagulls were at their morning cleaning duty. Makes you think, are you immortal if you haven't lived? Just a few moments piled up behind you like cigarette buts at a bus station.
Don't you just hate it when fools do your head in? How can you thin out something like this in 400 words? That's like diluting 50kg of sugar in 6 liters of cold water. You would need a lot more liquid, boiling hot stuff to take the edge of all this creamy sweetness.
Did you know that cheetahs drink every 3-4 days? I used to be like that too, but since I've got this job I drink every day. Or night. Like this one. Buildings got taller, dark alleys got longer as morning crept in. Felt like praying, oh, princess of dawn, lord of new light, I'd much rather like to enjoy you from the comfort of my bed than shivering down this cold street. Twinkle twinkle little star, how I wonder where you are. Don't look to the eyes of a stranger!
Hungry parking meters yawned in front of our office building. The sleepy security agent just glanced on my pass, 'you're early, especially for a Sunday'. Sunday? As I walked out, with my footsteps oozing vomit I could only think of one thing. Don't you just hate it when fools make your life a hell? Especially if that fool is you.

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