Well, I'm not freaking dead if that's what you're thinking.
Nor am I exceptionally busy — except to the point where the very idea of going from eight hours of staring at a computer for MONEY to going home, removing my tie, and then staring at another damn computer makes me want to vomit a stream of angry hornets from my eyeballs. But that's just me. I can remember with blissful patheticism what it was like to play Command & Conquer: Red Alert for 10 hours straight. My remuneration on past DOOM marathons that left me with visions of cross-hairs and fire-spewing shit demons for days are the thing of depressing nostalgia.
But now I am paid to stare at computers. It not so much makes me hate the activity so much as it completely rids me of any emotional reaction to it whatsoever. This can happen when you are paid for anything; ask a wine taster or porn star. This is why money is evil.
On the plus side, I will doubtlessly NOT be driven to school violence by graphic video games anymore. This is good for a multitude of reasons, not the least of which is the inconvenience of finding a school upon which to unleash my bullets of rage now that I have been graduated for four years.
What have I been doing, since it is apparently not the computer games, graphics, writing, and/or Internet pornography that so filled my hours in the past?
Romantificating. Impassionometry III. Giving my girlfriend a steady stream of opium-laced Pez so that she remains under my influence, AKA in love with me.
And cleaning her new house. I swear to the Great Spirit, if I could find a way to convert mouse poop and dead bugs to a reliable energy source or maybe a delightfully airy cake filling I would be a gatrillionaire right now. Rubbing her feet. Making her tea. Gluing a multitude of tiny dowels to tiny paper chairs for a tiny speak easy, presumably for hipster Lego people who are tired of sitting in chairs that push two giant discs into their buttocks.
And work. The art of reportery is often overlooked by many of the cultured that tell us what is "totally tubular," which is odd, because the cultured that tell us this are normally tortured beatniks-turned-journalists. In any case I'm making a name for myself locally. That name is "Jer-something With The Reasonable Talent And Overly-Polite Awkwardness." This name is ancient Aramaic and means "Idiot."
So my job is keeping me busy enough to completely fail to do my taxes yet or pay my college $25 for an (allegedly) lost power cord so that I may get my diploma. It's okay though. I'm inching my way out of debt with the help of a $13.96 check from the attorney general for my part of a class-action anti-trust suit against the CD companies. Take that music industry!
Oh, I had a dream last night that a dentist or some such doctor with a dentist like chair invented a suit and gun that could vibrate a person into a parallel time stream. What this meant is that by wearing a stylishly uncomfortable MegaMan suit, aiming Dr. Crazy's hairdryer at my chest and pulling the trigger, I would be simultaneously propelled backwards 10 feet while gaining super speed temporarily. The dream was very nifty and detailed, though the lighting was inexplicably bad. I remember that the first time I shot myself in the chest (a coincidental and possibly Freudian euphemistic exercise understood by a select few of my current friend base) I ran into the dentist's(?) waiting room and kicked a big K'Nex sculpture put there for kids to play with.
The design of the suit was to actually limit my mobility and strength so that things wouldn't explode when I touched them do to my exaggerated momentum. Nevertheless, the K'Nex thing flew apart slowly and beautifully, each gear and rod spinning independently away. The detail and color were great.
At this point my dream becomes very hard to relate, as two very odd things took place: The first was that an earlier and as yet unrelated dream merged with my current one, confusing my sense of unreality (the other dream was filled with a bunch of household pets which inexplicably slowly became evil mechanizations with blades and needles and death); and the second that was once they merged /I was two different people at the same time in my dreams/. This was disturbing, oddly easy for me to follow (at the time), and something that psychologists would doubtlessly find "very interesting." I won't go into details, save for the fact that Me #2 snuck up behind Me #1 a moment before Me #1 accelerated himself to super speed. When 1 flew backwards I/he struck 2 and accelerated him as well, but to a lesser extent because 2 wasn't immediately behind. While 2 wasn't as fast, I/he was stronger because he wasn't wearing the suit that prevented friction/momentum/chaos/whathaveyou. So I got to chase myself around as I went really fast (10x) with physically illogical but "normal" strength and also a different me went about 2-5x as fast as a normal person but was also equally "stronger" as he was able to apply a given amount of force in a much shorter duration.
Strength-wise, it was like 1 was a gun and 2 was a bullet: a little bit of recoil versus explosive impact and death. Or something. It was all very confusing and due to the aforementioned "shot in the chest theme," uncomfortably sexual once I pondered it in the waking hours.
I should most likely get back to work. /me out.