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I am beginning to suspect that I may be adversely affected by caffiene. Where I once scoffed at buying Coke in containers smaller than two liters, apparantly now it only takes one mug of tea on an empty stomach or a medium chai at midday to send me into a savage, on the verge of frenzy state. An experiment will be run, where tea will be postponed until after my midday meal, to measure any appreciable difference.
V for Vendetta was enjoyable, but disheartening at the same time. I can put aside Natalie Portman's poor accent and the crudly inserted love angle between her and V, and enjoy the overall parable about a dystopian England that has finally had enough. The disheartening point is that while Alan Moore wrote his story about his fears of a Thatcher led Orwellian future, our reality has come to pass much like in the movie. We are still eager to give up our freedom for security. Our government does not fear us the way it should, and it will continue to drive us into ruin, until someone among us remembers the fifth of November.
The weather grows slowly warmer with each passing day, but the ride to work grows colder and more distant. People are packed closed together, yet remain distant and separate. Those rare exceptions are the couples who press together, tongues slipping into mouths at the theater, feeding each other breakfast on the bus, hands rubbing cheeks on the subway. I stare harder at the screen, I focus on each word of the book I read in the morning, sounding on the words in my head, centering my attention inward to ignore the displays around me. The train stops and I leave, walking out with the other faceless masses, people peeling away one by one until alone I walk over the bridge to work, wrapped in cold for those last few moments before work.
Perusing a photo gallery just reminds me of how invisible I am. How little anything on the inside matters, and how important and cherised a curved limb or a flat stomach is. Brett Easton Ellis tries to illustrate the hollowness and disgustingness of chasing after beauty, all those insipid after school specials drone at you about "it's what inside you that counts." The abs and breast in the commercials reinforce what's really important, even the dumpy girl in the Very Special Episode is prettier than you will be.
Jobs are completed, in spite of the stupidity of the requestors. Empathy and compassion are in short supply in the morning hours. I decipher their intent through their bleating. It would be considered bad form to scream at the head of Human Relations, despite how arrogantly they state their ignorance of computers. I console myself with slapping my palms together as I leave, palms rubbing together, a curious but innocuous gesture.
It is only 9:35.
V for Vendetta was enjoyable, but disheartening at the same time. I can put aside Natalie Portman's poor accent and the crudly inserted love angle between her and V, and enjoy the overall parable about a dystopian England that has finally had enough. The disheartening point is that while Alan Moore wrote his story about his fears of a Thatcher led Orwellian future, our reality has come to pass much like in the movie. We are still eager to give up our freedom for security. Our government does not fear us the way it should, and it will continue to drive us into ruin, until someone among us remembers the fifth of November.
The weather grows slowly warmer with each passing day, but the ride to work grows colder and more distant. People are packed closed together, yet remain distant and separate. Those rare exceptions are the couples who press together, tongues slipping into mouths at the theater, feeding each other breakfast on the bus, hands rubbing cheeks on the subway. I stare harder at the screen, I focus on each word of the book I read in the morning, sounding on the words in my head, centering my attention inward to ignore the displays around me. The train stops and I leave, walking out with the other faceless masses, people peeling away one by one until alone I walk over the bridge to work, wrapped in cold for those last few moments before work.
Perusing a photo gallery just reminds me of how invisible I am. How little anything on the inside matters, and how important and cherised a curved limb or a flat stomach is. Brett Easton Ellis tries to illustrate the hollowness and disgustingness of chasing after beauty, all those insipid after school specials drone at you about "it's what inside you that counts." The abs and breast in the commercials reinforce what's really important, even the dumpy girl in the Very Special Episode is prettier than you will be.
Jobs are completed, in spite of the stupidity of the requestors. Empathy and compassion are in short supply in the morning hours. I decipher their intent through their bleating. It would be considered bad form to scream at the head of Human Relations, despite how arrogantly they state their ignorance of computers. I console myself with slapping my palms together as I leave, palms rubbing together, a curious but innocuous gesture.
It is only 9:35.
