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LOST:
MY LIFE One life, several decades old, white, scar on nose, frayed around the edges but utterly rash-free, lost in Metamuville around June 20. Answers to "Hey, asshole. I know you can hear me!" Medical condition makes it critical that it's found before football season. If seen, call John at 425-867-5309. Tell life he misses it and wants it to come home. |
It's hard to describe to civilians exactly what it's like to work in technology when it's time to ship the product. People in publishing have an inkling, but it's not at this scale. There are scads of people you depend on and scads of people who depend on you, and when it's time for you to produce, your life doesn't matter for shit. I actually enjoy that part of my work. I get a rush out of the pressure.
And then there was this year. Work-wise, this year was nothing unusual. I worked every day from June 20- August 12, sometimes 18 hours a day. In that same period of time, however, I also had to deal with:
- The unholy Destructo-puppy
- A server failure, a bad motherboard and a bad video card
- Covering for Amy while she went on vacation. This is essentially like telling your mail carrier during Sears catalog week "Oh, by the way, when you're done with that, you're installing engine blocks too."
- Allergies. I experienced a horrific, heretofore unprecedented allergic reaction to mold growing in my bedroom wall. Over the course of weeks, I couldn't breathe, my right eye crusted shut, and I was covered in a rash.
On my third trip to the emergency room, it dawned on me that this was something out of Rocky. "Just make the symptoms go away so I can keep working," I begged the doctors expressing concern about my blood pressure. ("Just cut me, Mick!") "Nothing will lower my blood pressure quite like being able to make my dates."
I was watching TV in my favorite recliner one night, trying to get sleepy, when I grew annoyed with how the chair was exacerbating my rash. "Motherfucker! It's like the rash is only where my body touches this ch—oh."
So in my abundant spare time, I made several trips to the dump; bought all new furniture, mattresses, linens and pillows; hired six separate specialists to test for mold, tear out the offending wall (sealing off my bedroom like the hazardous zone it was), rebuild it, reseal all the windows, repaint the exterior wall, and install new flooring. All of this happened right next to me as I worked those monstrously long days. With one eye and a rash. And what wasn't a rash had been scratched into a scab.
"I've never seen a non-animal scratch to such excess," said one doctor. "And your blood pressure is 40 points above where it was last week," said the doctor.
"NOFUCKINGSHIT?JUSTGIVEMEMOREMEDS."
Anyway. That's why I haven't been writing. How's your summer going?