At my job yesterday, I accidentally cared. It was just for a short while but it was pretty unnerving nonetheless. Especially for someone such as myself who, you know, doesn't. Care, that is. I doesn't.
But I also don't want to look like an idiot. Even if I am one, I don't want to LOOK like one. (That's the Connecticut way. It's on our license plates.) And I sensed that I was about to look like a real moron. And so I - accidentally I'm saying - cared for a second. I was upset by the fact that this thing that I don't really understand wasn't working the way that I half thought it sort of should have been working. I'm not sure what it did, or what I did TO it.
This is my job. I do things that I don't understand to computer programs that I don't understand. And they pay me and give me sandwiches once in awhile. It works, ok?
I got over the caring. And I did it by going home and watching Sigourney Weaver slaughter aliens in her cryptically titled film, Aliens. I bet those Aliens care about their job. Fucking shit up and bleeding acid. That's their job. And they do it with aplomb. I rarely do things with aplomb, but I have aplombish aspirations. And I mean well.
Good night, ladies. Oh, and come see me at the Comedy BBQ tonight (details at the left.) Should be a fun one.
1 comment:
This is job is giving you some A-Grade material, my friend.
Isn't it sad how the worst things in our life, give us the best material?
That means, in order to be funny, one must live an unpleasant life.
Not funny ha-ha, funny sad.
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