I read a description of my employer that made me feel a little bit better and a lot worse about everything: "Parcels Logistics." That's what we do. I didn't really quite know how to describe it, but that's right: we think about boxes.
I felt better having the correct rhetoric; words are everything.
And then I felt a lot worse, because that means I spend eight hours a day thinking about boxes.
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Tonight, for the first time, I told a stranger that I'm writing a novel.
It has to do with a society that compartmentalizes those with mental and personality disorders. It involves a pro-suicide cult, which combats overpopulation with pro-Darwinian religion. I'll get to it, in time.
But in the meantime, there are fashion shows to attend and champagne to drink. What are we celebrating?
Decisions, and a decided lack thereof.