A terrible thing to waste

Anyone who has even dipped their toes into the dark waters of neuroscience will know that mind and body are inextricably linked. Our visceral aspect is an essential part of the ephemeral. If you were able to remove someone’s brain and successfully hook it up to a life-support system, the resulting mind would not be entirely human. I suspect that this procedure may already have been done, because it’s certainly one way to explain the emptiness of my current Project Manager’s cranium. The alternative is just too sad to contemplate: his singular brain cell committed suicide out of loneliness.

This line of thought was prompted by the ongoing physical failure of the reanimated corpse I laughingly refer to as “my body”. I am the human equivalent of an Alfa Romeo Arna (If you decide to look it up, be prepared to be horrified) completed at five o’clock on a Friday afternoon. As my condition deteriorates and the pain ramps up, the disconnect between who I was and who I am widens.

I am literally losing my mind.

The procrastination situation

Once again, I am called upon to produce a fully-developed technical proposal THE FUCKING DAY BEFORE it is due. In my industry, the timelines are sometimes short, but the brain-donor who sits behind the mahogany desk in the fancy upstairs office has had this tender wedged up her arse since last month. Maybe she expected me to know by osmosis or geomancy or Fast Radio Burst that she wanted my help, because actual instructions appear to be a bridge too far.

When she finally decided to pull it out, she realised that it was due tomorrow and sent me a frantic message last night. I let it go to voicemail, because I was off the clock by then and I don’t get paid enough to put up with after-hours office horseshit.

To be honest, I don’t know why I’m annoyed. This happens so regularly; it may as well be in my job description.

Pascal’s Wager in reverse

Those who can, do. Those who can’t, get fast-tracked into a management position.

During the years I’ve spent working at this particular circus, my alleged betters really went the extra mile to ensure that my distress tolerance got turned all the way up to eleven. It’s probably why I’ve managed to survive the various health crises my shitty genetics have thrown at me. On the off chance there’s a Hell, I will probably fit right in.

I used to be in middle-management, but my obvious distaste for rectal spelunking saw me being demoted back into the ranks of the competent. I am now a “specialist”, which means my charge-out rate is extortionate, but my take-home is pitiful. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, but it is still vastly better than coprophagia.

However, if that’s your thing, we may have an opening for you.

Curmunication

On a scale of one to Muriel, I’m terrible. I’m no neurologist, but I suspect my mouth is connected directly to my brainstem. It often runs way ahead of my crippled cerebellum and by the time my two long-suffering brain cells arrive on the scene, the valves controlling the floodgates of consequence have been smashed to tiny bits.

My burial in the nether regions of the office is starting to feel normal. The solitude is helpful in moderating my more self-destructive impulses when dealing with management. I have more time to Think About What I Have Done and it gives me the opportunity to spend quality time bonding with the rat that lives in my hard-hat.

The stimulus deprivation hallucinations are fun, too.

The daily double

Human cloning is still allegedly in the realm of science fiction, but I have my suspicions that we have a working prototype hidden in a dusty corner somewhere in the archive.

There has been a noticeable trend in the company where managers become progressively more unhinged as time goes by. I can only conclude that we are experiencing a Multiplicity type scenario – where the copies make copies of themselves and each subsequent copy loses resolution in the process.

Either that, or someone has dosed the executive lounge water cooler with hallucinogens again.