Someone someday will have the solid brass balls to tell our story. And when that day comes it will have a name. The Eggs and the Giraffe.
I do enjoy considering myself Termination Zero. The epicenter of the entire downfall. The sign of the worsening. The precursor to the age of whatever the exact opposite of enlightenment is. I’m Termination Zero, Patient Zero, because it’s amusing in a grim sort of way and because it’s awfully coincidental.
And it’s not a disease so I have the ‘pleasure’ of watching the survivors suffer. But there’s no pleasure there. Not in the least. The grim amusement comes from the obvious failings of the powers that be, so much higher up in the corporation, who have no idea at all of what they’re doing. They’ve never spent a minute in the trenches of the war zone that is the sales floor. They’ve never had it out with one of the machines.
That, I believe, is a fact.
And it’s amusing and interesting because while OF COURSE it does not hold a candle to a battle or a war, it IS easy and is that kind of darkly, grim half-smilingly comparable to a war.
One that you’re on the front lines of. One that you’re losing.
Or one where you’ve received a dishonorable discharge.
The story is about eggs. It’s about giraffes. It’s about the place where I felt I belonged. The place where I was awesome. The place where I knew everything and everyone knew me and I knew everyone.
The place where we were united.
And the place where I got myself fired from due to curiosity and hubris.
Hubris is my new word. I find it applies often.
There are a lot of people who would be entertained to see our story written. There are a lot of people who would read it.
And there are a few people who would probably stop just short of having us killed if we told it.
If that’s not amusing, I don’t know what is.