It’s hard Babs. Being human I mean; most days I wish I was like you. A synthetic, mediated consciousness devoid of anxiety, fear, self doubt, and pointless introspection. Today was horrible—don’t sigh, I know I say that most days—but honestly, you have no idea (can have no idea) about the near bottomless capacity of crassness that you have plugged me into. Take small talk for example, I mean come on—don’t these people even attempt some degree of output filtering? Some degree of self censorship before they allow their train of thought to spew ceaselessly out of their wobbling, little-too-wet mouths?
Some examples from just one day in the Gaunt:
- Family minutiae
- Unsolicited updates on new hobbies
- Fucking property purchases
- Emotional incontinence
Even your supremely rational mentality could quail, I think…
This sort of white bread shite that pads the misery interstices at WorkSpace would be halfway tolerable if there was an adequate outlet for the converse: Edgy, gnarly, excoriating scalpels of observation that could slide, stiletto like, between the ribs of these unwary purveyors of dreck. For some reason this sort of asocial conduct is frowned upon (and yes, I am aware that I would open myself up to mandatory termination). But for fuck’s sake, chuck me bone—imagine the gearbox-crashing interruption that we could engender with the following:
- “Fat fingers, no?”
- “Positive equity is not wealth, moron.”
- “Too early to joke?”
- “Do some fucking work.”
- “Fuck off.”
Frankly, I’m dismayed. Fast Track, more like one track. Not only are most of these carelessly discharged arcs of genetic predestination excruciating, haw-hawing nathans of the nth degree, but they also collectively create a fertile ground for interactive mediocrity. Like a gaggle of wallowing, pre-Darwinistic linguists, they ensure that the mainstays of work small talk stubbornly cling on like limpets in a foetid inland sea.
And the greatest injustice? None of the normal palliatives to their banality are applicable (or permitted).
Booze: Tiring and confusing.
Weed: Terrifying.
Rage: Not conducive to hierarchical advancement (could cut both ways this one though…)
Screen: Too much of a time sink.
Sarcasm: Woefully misunderstood/under-appreciated.
Wanking: The greatest threat of all outside of the 9-5 work slot.
20:00 creeps round, the virch cursor blinks desultorily in the corner of my shallow dunk, enthusiasm sinks to previously unrealised nadirs, a hot beverage—pah! Smoking is for hardy types, brrr. With a pathetic hind brain predictability, thoughts slouch south—but for fuck’s sake, “I CAN’T GO THERE!"—that way lies misery, self-loathing, the desperate need for a shower, and the niggling sense of a line crossed forever…
Night, Babs, you lucky fucker.