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angst (of the kind undergraduates get when they have too many essays)

Saturday 16 September 2006 | someone left a cookie

Can you say, deadline? Repeat after me, boys and girls. Let’s all say it together: Deadline. Head cold. Autumn.

hey, housekeeper's not in my job description
Hey, at least the crockery pile-up stems from being overwhelmed with work, rather than abject depression. At least when I burst into tears it’s because I’m despondent and frightened, not because I’m…right.

I don’t like my job no more. I want to work in a greenhouse, a spaghetti factory, a nursery school, a penitentiary, an abbatoir, a homicide unit. I want to be a nun. I want to live in Sicily and grow olives and have eight babies (biologically unlikely). I never want to see a computer again. Ever.

The Brujo tries to help, in a balanced, sane and somewhat distant way, but he can’t, because he’s not Mandarin. Who’s in Salama-a-an-ca-a-a-a…[trails off into hiccupping sobs].

You don’t need the magic fruitbat! You can fly! [Crashes into wall, slithers down it, stunned like bird flying into windowpane. Thinks distantly: Well huh. You can take the sky from me.]

someone left a cookie

  1. florist said on Wednesday 20 Sep 2006 at 2.23 am:

    I understand you. But after a while without computer you will wish one. I’ve tried it!


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