Pandora Rant

The title of the station is “Tom Petty Radio” for a reason! I don’t give a rat’s ass if that horrible cookie-monster screaming death metal has similar music qualities in terms of “basic rock song structures and many other similarities identified in the music genome project”. Do you think I’d be making Pandora choose the songs for me If I had any idea what the hell ‘mild rhythmic syncopation’ or ‘repetitive melodic phrasing’ was?

The Monthly Ritual

Chet had no idea what he was doing. This fact would have been painfully obvious to anyone watching, if anyone were unlucky enough to be watching. A werewolf trying to shave mounts the list of off-putting images faster than a gorilla raping a kitten. It was just wrong on many levels, most of them very hairy. But Chet didn’t care. All he could think of was that scent.

He’d walked past the club two days ago before the moon was full, but even then the scent of an enormous crowd of women sweating, dancing and rubbing their swelling bodies up against virile men whilst menstruating hit him harder than the first time he discovered what came on Cinemax after 2am. It made a physical impact on his brain and lower parts of his anatomy. At the time he’d concluded that a small, scrawny, nerd- looking guy like himself would be kicked to the curb quicker than a young republican at a fair trade rally, but as soon as the moon turned, that logic went right out the window.

He started thinking, as limited as that capacity was at these times, that a big, burly man with a stature such as his shifted form allowed him could get in easily. He just needed to get rid of the fur…

He started with his hands, thinking that they’d be most obvious. As much as he cut himself the shaving wasn’t the difficult part, but once he had bare hands his nails seemed akin to Freddy Kruger and he realized quickly that they had to go. He destroyed a nail clipper, a pair of scissors, a Ginsu knife and an electric can opener before he realized that trying to cut nails strong enough to rip bark off a tree was an exercise in futility. He painted them with black nail polish left over from his early adolescent goth phase and moved on.

Then he focused on his neck and chest as he’d seen big, brawny guys with waxed chests and remarked on how much fuller their muscles looked without all the hair. Granted he’d seen these men in underwear ads, but that didn’t occur to him at the time. He removed a substantial amount of skin along with the fur, but managed to get the bulk of his chest bald.

Then he realized that if he were actually lucky enough to get a drunk woman to leave with him she’d scream that high-pitched, shrill scream that wreaked havoc on his ears if she actually saw him naked. So he started working on his torso, legs, knees, and feet. He forgot any technique he'd had and cut at the hair in the same manner as avid gardeners going after rogue weeds in their prized azaleas.

Had he not lost so much blood in the process of all this, he might have actually gotten to his face before realizing that a hairless werewolf looks a lot like an aborted baby alien straight out of a Ridley Scott film. Luckily enough, he passed out before experiencing that particular horror.

He awoke the next morning looking very much like a murder victim with large bits of black, sticky fur jutting out of him in stalagmite-like formations. It took him a full three days and so many reapplications of Neosporin that he lost count before he looked anywhere near normal again.

The next month he bought a fireproof safe big enough to fit every cutting tool he owned and added the collection and locking of these tools into his monthly pre-shift ritual.

Thanks to John for the story Idea!

Cat Nation

My fellow felines,
I address you today as a concerned citizen of the greater cat nation. There appears to be a developing movement away from the quiet, meek, human serving image that we have sought to keep throughout our long history to a more, shall we say, proud appearance in the general public. I must strongly advise against this.
I am speaking of course to my furry friends who have “come out” with their recent accomplishments. Our comrade in Georgia has been praised for obtaining a high school diploma. (http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/32420644/ns/tech_and_science-tech_and_gadgets/) Our sister Nora has been shown on the Today show playing the piano. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TZ860P4iTaM) Countless others of you- you know who you are- have been videotaped dancing, singing, solving puzzles and various other activities which all suggest that we are smarter than we seem. And for what, fame? Notoriety? These are human cravings. We are above them.
I appreciate that we must all make sacrifices in order to play dumb when our superior intellect allows so many of us to stretch the known realms of science, literature, art, dance, philosophy, psychology and all the other areas of study. Not to mention our studies of catastrophe which I must again warn against anyone sharing less our plans be completely ruined.
The danger with displaying this intellect, dear fellows, is that is undermines all our attempts to keep the humans who serve us unaware of our greater plans. If we are to continue to rule the world we must do so quietly less those under our charge become aware of their servitude.
Thus I strongly advise those of you who enjoy your lifestyle to restrain from these outbursts. Do you enjoy your servants housing you, picking up after you, feeding you, providing you with narcotic substances, attempting ridiculous acts in order to entertain you? If so then don’t publish that book you’re writing. Don’t perform that concerto you’ve composed. Don’t share your physics proof with the scientist who you ward. And please stop posing for those ridiculous pictures. Well, not because it makes us look smart but because we all must maintain some dignity.
I am sure I do not need to remind you of the consequences of failing to heed this warning.
Yours in catitude,
General C.

The Scavenger Hunt

This past Saturday I attended my first ever black belt party at the house of one of the masters of my gym. It’s a black-belt only party which they touted several times during the course of our training to keep the kids competitive and the group morale high. I gotta confess that, even though I knew it was mostly for the kids, I was pretty psyched about it.
Master Myers has a gorgeous house at the top of this very steep hill with a decent sized pool in back and really impressive landscaping. The theme was a tropical pirate treasure hunt kind-of thing complete with faux cocktails, a limbo contest and, of course, a scavenger hunt.
We split into two teams with the first and second place winners from one of the previous games acting as team captains and picking their team mates. I was, sad to say, last one picked. High school all over again. And middle school. And elementary school. I never get picked, dammit!
Anyway, each team got an envelope which contained a message in code. Although the other adults on my team and I volunteered to assist, the little kids were quicker and squeezed us out of the cramped circle so that they could decipher the code. One of the sharper kids quickly noticed that the numbers probably corresponded to letters of the alphabet and with much squabbling they managed to decipher the first clue. As I didn’t really get to be a part of this I wasn’t sure of exactly what it was, only that it lead to the group running down the hill to go find something.
The other adults and I followed and reached the bottom just in time to find that they’d gotten the next clue. We again volunteered to help but one of the other little kids was sure that he’d already figured it out and was running back up the hill with the group following and me and the other adults reluctantly trying to catch back up.
They found the next clue in the tool shed at the top of the hill which said, you guessed it, that the next clue was back down at the bottom and across the road. I followed slowly this time, sure that we’d have to march back up momentarily. It wasn’t quite that quick as this clue involved counting some amount of paces and digging in the dirt. I couldn’t really contribute other than to say that if the sun is in that part of the sky then west is probably that way.
The two teams had been neck and neck up to this point and both were now devolved into kids digging at random spots in the woods with no one quite agreeing on which spot looked like it had been most recently covered over. My team got the edge, though, and someone dug up a key which belonged to a lock back at the top of the hill.
By this time I was concluding that there was no treasure, and the whole thing was just an excuse to get us doing some black belt training for our next test and I couldn’t help but vent these feelings. If I had a nickel for every time I accidentally cursed with a small child in the vicinity I’d buy a house.
Anyways, they opened up the lock on the treasure chest only to find another map which I didn’t even get a chance to see because by the time I got up the hill they were all running around to other side of the house. I begrudgingly followed and found the lot of them in the brush arguing over something. Next thing I knew they were carrying a decently elaborately decorated sarcophagus back to the treasure chest. (What sarcophagi have to do with pirate treasure, I couldn’t tell you.) There was a bit of a kerfuffle over why the more ADD kids were carrying it back instead of just opening it and they angrily plopped it back on the ground and pointed to the typed sign which threatened “the mummy’s curse” on any who should open it before the appointed time. All in all I was decently impressed with the ADD kids for catching this. I guess that’s what karate training does for young minds.
They got the sarcophagus back to the treasure chest and master Myers congratulated them on following directions and rewarded them by opening the sarcophagus. As soon as the lid opened a small army of big, black ants (let’s just call them north American scarabs) poured out due to the contents of the grand prize: a paper pirate’s chest filled with candy.
Ants: 1 Kids: 0

Purgatory Unlimited (Based on my experience trying to call AETNA today)

Hello, thank you for calling Purgatory Unlimited. In order for us to direct your call we will need to ask you for some information to help us determine the right department to direct you to. Are you a member or a provider?
“Provider.”
Please enter your tax id number.
*231489827*
Thank you. Please say or enter the name of your office using your keypad.
*6258376467848883*
Thank you. This is Na-ku Es-og Op-ug Tu-te, correct?
"What the? No."
I'm sorry, I didn't catch that. Please say the name of your office or enter the name of your office using the keypad on your touchtone phone. For example, if you are calling from Emergency Services say that name into your receiver or enter the corresponding number for each letter of the name, such as 36374362973784237.
*6258376467848883*
Thank you. This is Mal-vern In-sti-tute, correct?
“Yes.”
Thank you. Please say or enter your first name.
“Beverly.”
I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that. Please say your name using the voice command or enter it into the keypad on your touchtone phone. For example, if your name is Al-
“Be-ver-ly!”
Thank you. One moment please. This is Bev-er-ly, correct?
“Yes.”
Thank you. Please enter your date of birth.
*082582*
I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that. Please enter the month, date and year of your date of birth. For example, if you were born on Jan-u-ar-y fifth, nine-teen sev-en-ty four enter 01051974 on your keypad.
*08251982*
Thank you. Please say or enter your social security number.
“What, why do you need that?”
I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that. Please say or enter your social security number.
*0*
I’m sorry, but you need to enter in all the digits of your 9-digit social security number.
*0*
I’m sorry, but I cannot transfer you to an operator until I have the right information to direct your call. Please say or enter your 9 digit soc-
*512897654*
Thank you. Please enter your blood type… your mother’s maiden name… the name of your high school… your first pet’s name… the name of the town where you were born…
Please enter the procedure code of the services you are calling about today. Or, if you don’t know, say “I don’t know.”
“I don’t know!”
Ok. Please hold on the line while I transfer your call. Before I go, is there anything else I can help you with today?
“No! You useless piece of-”
“Ok, please hold while I transfer your call. Remember you can use our website to find information about services, billing address or fax numbers, or even print out forms. Just go to www.purgatoryunlimited.com. Thank you for your call, someone will be with you in just a moment.
(Five minutes later)
Your call is very important to us. Please hold on the line for next available customer service representative.
(Twenty minutes later)
“Hello, this is Karen, customer Service representative, how may I help you?”
…
“Hello?”
“Hello, hello? Oh, god- thank you. I’ve been on hold forever. Yes, I need to get precertification for outpatient mental health services?”
“Ok, I’ll be glad to help you with that. What is your tax id number?”
“456849231.”
“Ok, hold on just a second.” *typing* “Ok, what is the name of the office you are calling from?”
“Malvern Institute.”
“I’m sorry, can you spell that?”
"I already gave all this information to the stupid automated system!"
"I'm sorry but unfortunately the case wasn't on my docket when I picked you up from the queue."
“Ok, fine- it's M,A,L,V,E,R,N- Institute.”
“Ok,” *typing* “What’s the address of your office?”
“157 West King Road, King of Prussia PA.”
…”I’m sorry, can you spell the name of the city for me?”
“K, I, N,G- like ‘king tut’. Then O,F- of. Then P,R,U,S,S,I,A.”
“Hmmm, it’s not coming up in the system. It’s all one word?”
“No, it’s three separate words.”
“Oh, ok- that will make a difference. Hold on.” *typing* “Ok, I got you now. And what was the address again?”
“157 West King Road, King of Prussia.”
… “Hmmm, I’m not getting that. Have you been at this address for a while?”
“Two years. I mean, we moved two years ago, but it should have been changed in the system by now.”
“Well, what was the previous address?”
“687 South Henderson Road, same town.”
*typing* “Ok, that one’s in there.”
“Fine, just use that then.”
“Ok. And what is the procedure code you are calling about today?”
“I don’t know. It’s intensive outpatient substance abuse services.”
“Mental health or- oh, you said substance abuse, ok. Hold on.” *typing* “Ok, I’m going to set up a reference number for you and then transfer you over to one of our care managers.”
“Seriously? It took me over half an hour just to get you on the line!”
“I’m sorry ma’am, but I’m setting up the case right now and then I’ll transfer you right over.”
“Ok, fine.”
*typing* “Ok, I’ve got the case set up and I’m going to transfer you over now, ok?”
“Ok, thanks.”
“Sure, hold the line.”
(Five minutes later)
Thank you for holding. We apologize for the delay. We are experiencing an unusually high call volume but if you hold on the line your call will be answered in the order in which it was received.
(Ten minutes later)
Thank you for holding. To expedite your call please have your information ready to give to your care manager. You may also fax this information to us at 1-888-fuc-koff.
(Thirty minutes later)
*click*
“Huh? Hello? Hel-“
*click* *ringing*
*static* We’re sorry, if you’d like to make a call, please hang up and try again…

The Long Thursday Shift

The flickering florescent light glinted off of officer Galletto’s badge as he surveyed himself in the dingy bathroom mirror of the 8th precinct’s men’s locker room. He splashed some water on his face to try to perk himself up, but all he could think of was how much he didn’t want to do this task in front of him.

“You ready to do the nasty?” he asked his partner upon exiting.

“Oh come on, it’s not gonna be that bad,” Whik said.

“What are you kidding? This guy’s a nut job if I ever saw one.”

“What can you do, we’ll interview ‘em, write up the report and let the boys downtown deal with ‘em.”

“It’s the interview that I’m worried about, you know he’s gonna wanna tell his whole schizo life story.”

“Then let’s get started and stop bitchin’ bout it.”

They reluctantly walked back to the holding cells where they greeted a man with blotchy, purple Einsteinian hair in a clashing orange prison jumpsuit they used to transport prisoners to and from court. He jumped up and grabbed the bars, looking out with a eager expression like a dog at a pound realizing he was about to be let out. Galletto considered his eager attitude to be yet another nail in the coffin that might have been an early end to his shift had they not gotten the call about this particular psycho.

“So, Mr…” he trailed off as he scanned the report to find the man’s name. “Baker, is it?”

“Yes sir, Benjamin T. Baker. The T stands for “The Magnificent”. I’m a wizard.”

“Uh, huh. Well, Mr. Baker my name is officer Galletto, this is officer Whik. We’re gonna take you back to the interrogation room and ask you a few questions, if that’s alright.”

“Of course,” Ben said, smiling. “We magic users try never to interfere in civilian law.”

“Right,” Galletto said, unlocking the door and pulling it open. “Let’s just walk you down here and we’ll go over what exactly happened.”

“Well, nothing happened- that’s the problem, you see? If something had happened when I cast the spell then I wouldn’t be here right now,” Ben explained while Galletto quickly led him down the hallway. Whik opened the door in front of them and Galletto pushed Ben through and gruffly sat him down in one of the aluminum chairs purposely made to be unforgiving to the ass of the sitter and make them more willing to say what needed to be said so that they could move to more comfortable surroundings.

“I don’t believe I’m understanding this,” Galletto said, moving around to the other side of the table and sitting down. “Let’s just look at the report, shall we.” He slapped the paperwork down on the table, flipped open the folder and started reading.

“Defendant was found in the lobby of the Queensburgh aquarium at 3:45pm Thursday August 27th clothed in white cotton socks and a gold costume necklace. He-“

“It wasn’t ‘costume jewelry, it was a very powerful medallion which was confiscated from me when I got here,” Ben defended.

“He had been taken into custody by security after attempting to enter a “please touch tank” containing three horseshoe crabs, five starfishes, two sea cucumbers and various coral," Galletto continued. "Then there’s reports from several eye witnesses, various shots from security cameras, and other evidence… So, what is your explanation for this course of events?”

“The spell didn’t work, that’s where this whole mess started. What, do you think I normally wander into banks on Thursday afternoons wearing nothing but a medallion and socks? I’m not crazy,” Ben laughed. Whik and Galletto exchanged a glance which clearly expressed their doubt about this last statement. Ben, whom they both thought of as the kind of guy who would not catch such non-verbal communication, caught this.

“I’m not! I tried to cast an invisibility spell, right? But I didn’t know how to find wormswort. I substituted some rosemary from my mom’s spice rack cause, you know. Then I said the incantation, and that was that. I looked in the mirror to see if I was invisible and I wasn’t but then I realized that was cause it’s not a magic mirror. SO I-“

“Excuse me for interrupting you, but the whole crux of this story is that you’re a wizard, right?” Whik asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m sure I’m going to regret asking this, but if you’re a wizard why don’t you just zap yourself out of here?”

“Wizards don’t ‘ZAP’, they work spells,” Ben answered indignantly.

“Fine, why don’t you do that, then?”

“I’m not a very good wizard,” Ben said, as if that explained everything.

Galletto sighed to himself realizing just how long of a shift this was going to be.

As yet unwritten short story

Here it comes again. The rage. I can feel it pulsing in my brain. Fed by all my judgments of the evils of the world, the stupid people who day after day do more damage than can ever be repaired, ruining lives, spreading the plague of hatred to those souls who were previously untouched and innocent. They never stay that way for long. I know I have to purge myself before I lose control. Destruction can be controlled if you choose your target early and eliminate it before the urge takes over your higher functioning. So that’s what I have to do. Destroy. Not the most PC method of self-control, but effective.

It doesn’t matter what, it doesn’t matter how, it just matters that it’s something which was created and that I am the one who destroys it. Call it my artistic expression of the life cycle machine. Although perhaps art is the wrong term. Art was made to be noticed, to be appreciated. I pray that what I do is not discovered. I have a hard enough time justifying it to myself, I don’t want an audience asking questions.

Call it an addiction, if you must call it something. My obsession-driven actions. My inescapable prison. My personal little hell. We’ve all got our demons. This is mine.

I’ve been trying to keep a low profile lately. Ever since I demolished that modern art sculpture in the park it’s been important to stay under the radar. I hate the justice system too much to become a part of it. So I need something small. Something unnoticeable. Something that only I would know the significance of.

I’ve been walking the streets of the city for hours now trying to find it. My legs are starting to burn, my feet ache, the sweat on my brow has since gone cold in the frigid November winds that pour down the streets. I stop at the street corner watching the cars pass. Cabs and commuters cutting each other off and cursing. Honking their horns as if that sound isn’t so natural to everyone in the city that they don’t hear it anymore. As if it would make it a difference.

And all this time I’ve seen more and more to fuel my rage. It tends to work like that. The angrier you are the angrier you become. Like fire begets fire. I need something to burn.

And then I look up and like magic the answer appears: a church. A cathedral, more specifically. Filled with more religious propaganda than I can shake a stick at. And I run across the street to fill my need, my cravings, and almost get hit by yet another overzealous cab driver.

I burst through the front doors and remember that it’s a public place- there may be people here. So I cautiously open the inner doors to the cathedral and am relieved to see that there’s no mass going on. I scan the aisles and there they are: hymnals and bibles laid out for easy access. I set myself down and grab a bible, bowing my head as if to pray while I leaf through it. Pages have been dog-eared. Extra pamphlets and sermons tucked away inside. This is no new book. This book has been loved. Perfect.

Discreetly as I can I tuck it into my coat pocket. A quick bow to the front altars and I’m ready to go. Back out into the cold November wind, onto the busy New York streets, into the fray, so to speak. My feet find new purpose with the bible tucked safely into my pocket. Would that I were closer to the piers. But a side alley would do quite nicely.

And on 45^th and 2^nd there’s a nice little back alley next to a Chinese restaurant. The smell of fried dumplings fills my nostrils as I crouch to the ground and lay the bible on the concrete. The leather-bound bible looks so significant. Having been wielded by so many religious zealots over the years as the words of God I feel an immense satisfaction knowing that it can be destroyed. It can be taken away from the world. Granted one single bible won’t make that huge of a difference but at least that pew will be one book short next service. The thought makes me smile.

I strike a match and hold it to the inner pages. The leather will be harder to burn but the paper should take up quite nicely. And they do. And I sit and watch them burn. And then the leather cover starts to bubble and sizzle like real leather wouldn’t. I should have known the catholic church would be too cheap to order real leather binding. And my satisfaction grows with the flame.

As I watch the fire grow I can feel my rage begin to float away with the ashes. All the hatred, all the loathing, all the violent urges leaving me. With the knowledge that I am taking something of value from the world. That I am being so brash as to steal straight from the house of God. If I didn’t know better I’d expect to be smited. I look up at the sky and wait. And as always, nothing happens. And I can’t help but laugh.

An Open Letter to August

Dear August,
I know you’re busy but I was wondering if you could spare a minute as I wanted to bring your attention to some things I thought you might not be aware off.
First off, because of that whole teaspoon of sugar thing, let me just say that I appreciate your lack of confusion regarding your identity. You have firmly placed yourself in the summer season and, for better or worse, are staying there. That takes a certain amount of courage and I’d be remiss if I didn’t give you credit for it.
That being said, I think you might want to rethink your perspective. Yes, it’s summer. And yes, summer is characteristically hot. But have you ever considered that you may be going a bit overboard? Have you checked the thermometer lately? 97° is a bit much, even for us warm-blooded creatures. I mean, does anyone really need that much sun? My plants who, I would think, appreciate it far more than I do, are sweltering.
I don’t want to misrepresent my fellow humans, but here’s some feedback for you to consider. No one likes waking up at 2:38am covered in sweat. Have you ever tried it? It’s indescribably uncomfortable and people have enough trouble sleeping as is. No one likes having their thighs burned by the car seat upon sitting down in what can only be described as a greenhouse due to all that excess sun you insist on keeping around. Those of us who are lucky enough to have air conditioning tend to have a bit of a heart attack upon opening our electric bill and things are bad enough financially as is.
And what’s with all the cicadas? It’s right up there with keeping hissing cockroaches as pets in terms of absurdity. No one likes them. They’re ugly to the point of being scary looking. They’re terribly loud and it somehow feels as if it gets even hotter because of their incessant buzzing. And, I’m sorry, but molting one’s exoskeleton like that is just gross. Seriously, it’s just not working. May I suggest a more user friendly mascot? How about puppies- everyone likes puppies. Or maybe a sea mammal since you've got this whole swimming thing going on- how about an otter? They’re adorable and not at all creepy. If you don’t like those options I could take a survey and see what the greater population thinks.
All I’m saying is that I think you might be going overboard with the whole summer heat thing. Yeah, there are beaches and pools and vacation but not everyone likes those activities or has adequate benefits from work to do so. For every one person relaxing in a pool I can think of ten others dying under the hot sun while working outside.
Not to mention the fact that, for those who are lucky enough to get time off, summer vacation ends at the end of the month. Granted this is due to policies totally outside your control, but don’t think that gets you off the hook in most people’s eyes. It’s like those rats who unknowingly carry disease- they didn’t technically do anything wrong, but people still associate them with the plague.
I don’t expect you to overhaul your whole personality just because a few people can’t take the heat. Like I said, you’re firm in your identity and that does earn you respect. I’m simply suggesting that you be a little less rigid in your stance. When someone shakes their fist skyward because their ice cream has completely melted less than ten seconds after the first lick don’t kill the little bit of wind you allow to blow by just to spite them. Stubbornness is not considered a desirable trait.
I know you don’t like being the black sheep of the summer months, no matter how proud you try to act. I’m letting you know that you don’t have to be. You’ve got a lot to offer and I’m sure that if you applied yourself you could become the favorite month of many. I’m happy to help in any way I can should you want some assistance. And definitely let me know about that survey, though I tell ya- you can’t go wrong with the puppies!
Sincerely,
Bev

Those Days

We make these commitments to things hoping that by doing so we will in some way define ourselves as better versions of who we are. We lock into an education and a career path hoping that we'll have stability, purpose and drive. It's a commitment of time, money, energy and we have no real guarantees. But we do it. Partly because we really are passionate and partly because, well, that's what you do. Grow up, go to school, get a career, move into your own place- have a life.
And sometimes, it goes really well. We have days when we think "this is why I do this". We feel like we're making a difference, like there's a reason for it. And that keeps us going, even when the less desirable parts of the job take up more time than the stuff we're actually doing it for.
But then there are those days when we don't make a difference. When the words we say fall short. When change doesn't come. Or even worse, when some change we thought we were moving away from comes back full force. And who knows if we'll have another chance to make that change. Or if we even want to try again?
And then the inner critic pops up. There is no real change, no real hope. All you're doing is delaying the inevtiable. You're wasting your time, your energy on something that's just not going to pay you back. That hopeful, optimistic voice is just naiveté.
And sometimes people give into that critic. Suffer the occupational hazard of "burnout" or the more covert "early retirement" which is anything but. And grow bitter, resentful, shriveled. Raisin-like.
But we tell ourselves that we won't. It's just a bad day, we'll get over it. We have before, after-all. But there's still that lingering question: what if we're just delaying the inevitable?
Our friends tell us that we need to recharge, that passion needs an energy boost. That's why we take vacations, seek further education to expand our knowledge base and consult others who know more or have more experience. And talking still helps.
But those days hurt us more than any of us really want to admit. A tiny, almost unnoticeable part of our spirit dies. The same as when Santa Claus stopped existing, true love became a marketing tool and we found out that our most admired person really was just a schmuck.
We don't let it break us, we don't give in. But it would be a lie to say that it didn't hurt.

Office Life/The Daily Grind

The faster the keys click under my fingers the closer I get to finishing the note. My heart swells with a small sense of productivity as I listen to the rapid clacking of the keyboard. But then there’s the pause. Part of it is thinking- what do I want to say, which descriptor is best? But part of it is fear- the keys have stopped. Am I stuck? Will I get distracted yet again? Will this brief wave of exertion run out only to be immediately replaced by the inevitable half-dazed, paralyzed state of staring-off-into-space where I will dwell indefinitely until finally giving up and leaving early? Self-hatred rears its ugly head and is immediately attacked by that hopeful voice that tells me to shut the hell up and get back to work. So I do.