WarOfTheRoses

The insomnia police have been around again with their paddles and batons, waking me at odd hours. I’m a bruised zombie and the world won’t stand still. On the way to work, everything warped out of it’s own container and I had to wind down all the windows and let air into the car. At one point the road stretched out to an infinite length and made me five minutes late for work.

I’d like to know how other people are coping with the prospect of the inevitability of death. Or moreover, the inevitably of life and the need to do things. The wind’s blowing a can around the cul-de-sac and the noise won’t stop until somebody goes and picks it up. Life is high maintenance and zombified or not, you’ll need to stumble around performing maintenance tasks all over the damn place or else the boiler explodes and we’re all bedsores and third degree burns until we can walk again.

I used to perform highly technical tasks and now I do rostering. This is the danger of promotions, careers. It’s lonely at the top, with all the selfish arseholes but only losers want their old job back, according to chapter six of the Leering Managers guide to Corporate Power-mongering. So as an experiment, for the next six hours the zombie is going to half pay attention, then see if there’s any discernible affect on the quality of his output. I’m slipping comfortably into the role already. During our operational meeting I let my thoughts wander back to the Laundry Day girl in the red bubble photo, exuding all that sexy domesticity with those jesus-christ legs. It’s a curse really. Then I pretended to take notes but doodled the room picasso, with a better decor. We should go white collar gothic. It can’t hurt.

Shit I’d better go I’m pre-latte and it’s showing. Wish me luck and please post suggestions on what to do with the remaining piece of my life k thx bye