Alright, so, I'm doing this typing job on the side for my boss. And I'm not supposed to talk about it. Because apparently his wife, who is also my boss, would get really really angry if she knew one of her employees was working on it. And this worries me. Because I don't want to get fired. Not that I think I would be, even if she found it, but still...it's weird.

And what I'm typing is rather hard to read. It's kind of ironic that this job came up just after I reread the partial diary I kept during college. I read it and thought Wow, I was overdramatic. Not to mention that weird kind of naive, the kind where you really kind of know what's going on, but you're still too young and inexperienced to fully grasp how everything fits together. Of course, I'm still not totally out of that phase yet, being only 23, with my whole life ahead of me...and absolutely no career prospects coming into the horizon at present.

Anyway, I'm reading this stuff he wrote way back in 1960, when he was probably about my age. I guess I shouldn't really even be talking about it, so I'll just say this: There's no worry of me being corrupted by the rantings of a twentysomething self-exiled in London.

To demonstrate sort of how it feels, I made this. Well, to sort of demonstrate. My boss is Invader Zim. I am Stitch. And Lilo is society.

Or something pretentious like that.

Labels: work.

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