Etiquette 101: Bathrooms

My fellow wanderers of the ever-increasing cyber-spatial world, good day to you! I would first and foremost like to issue a formal apology for my unexplained sabbatical from the web. Unexplained, because, as you can imagine, my penchant for social interaction has greatly decreased over the past year-and-a-bit. Why, you ask? Well, on that level, friends, I must proudly inform you that I am no longer a frequenter of the public transport system.

Hurrah! Hu-zzaah! And confetti for all! In sum, once I acquired a vehicle (lovingly christened Charlie Kenelm Sewell the First), the need for me to embark on my daily auto-bus journey greatly depleted, and I (most alarmingly) found myself almost pining for the opportunity to publicly despise people, owing to Charlie's and my very lonely drive as his wheels trudge through the roads. The extent of my association with other humans is limited to waving my hand out of my window to thank a good Samaritan for allowing me to interrupt his course, or to gesture frantically for others to do the same. No matter! I digress from the topic of today: Bathrooms. Salles de bain. Comfort Stations. Washrooms. The Poo Depot, and whatever else you choose to call that space whose use I will not describe here (for very obvious reasons).

Today I shall embark on an exploratory verbal journey highlighting the combined Do's and Don't's of proper public restroom use. Hell, forget public, even general restroom use. From toilet-paper conduction to proper-handwashing, let me guide you through this inevitable reality of our lives.

1: The Opportune Moment

I can confidently and unabashedly state that this, above all, is one of the most integral aspects of our favoured topic today. In many ways, finding the right time to relieve oneself (if possible, of course, for the call of nature is akin at times to the blaring of a siren, at which point you, my un-lucky, pressured-up friend, have little choice but to high-tail it to the next stall without so much as a glance at the U-Bend for fear of unceremonious expulsion of bodily matter into your no doubt snappy attire) is a task. How can I effectively monitor the traffic of my local lavatory? Is this even possible? And if so, WHEN DO I GO?

The Do's of this category are many and varied. First, surreptitiously scope your scenery for every possible access you have to your facilities. Are there several options available to you, or are you condemned with a choice of only one cluster-of-crap-collectors? Find it out, then attempt to adhere to your bodily schedule. If you are fortunate enough to have a relatively regular digestive cycle, then I both applaud and sympathise with you. Applaud because this means your fibre intake is paid infinitely more attention by you than my own. Sympathise, though, because THIS means that you are likely one of those who falls into the high-volume time bracket allotted to latrine use at the office, or out and about. Generally speaking, there is a 2-4-2 rule. Early in the day (round 8:00-8:30AM) your washroom will be a celebrity. Two hours later, at 10:00AM, the same. Most people refrain from bathroom activity around lunch-time, and rightly so; therefore, the next rush occurs at around 2:00PM, four hours after the formerly indicated time. Finally, right before people embark on their journey towards home, between 4:00PM and 5:00PM, the commodes once again enjoy a copious flow of flushing.

If you are not chronologically inclined, you must suffer from the ultimate Don't in finding the right moment. This, friends, is one of the most harrowing experiences. Imagine: you have answered to your body's need to rid itself of wasteful, un-used nutritious material. You are exercising your quadriceps and hamstrings in an attempt to fortify your mysophobia. Suddenly, without warning, you hear the tell-tale sounds of a pair of frantic feet barging into the bathroom, complete with a bang of the door and much huffing and puffing on your intruder's part. Immediately, you tense, almost lose your bearings, and risk sustaining a hamstring injury in the process of making your presence known, so that your trespasser is privy to the fact that there is another soul in this now forsaken place (ironically dubbed a "comfort station" by many). THIS is the Don't: Never, ever make a distressed entrance into a public lavatory. You risk not only causing an unfortunate accident to the individual already present in this situation (over which you must understand that he or she has the right, as he or she was there first), but also causing yourself a great degree of embarrassment if you yourself do not pay attention to others.

2: Occupancy

Directly in relation to the above, in the event that your privacy-assailant makes a swift and cunning entry into the washroom, the only indication to which you are aware is the soft creak of rusty hinges and lightly-padding feet, always, ALWAYS make a conspicuous noise (preferably one that does not exit any orifice other than your mouth), such as a cough, or a Price-Is-Right-esque spin of the toilet-paper roll, to inform this person of your occupancy of one of the (hopefully numerous) stalls. Conversely, if you have lost dibs on the opportunity to earn a solitary trip to the loo, please make sure anyone who may be in there already is certain that you are about to share an almost-intimate encounter between solid phenolic commode-separators.

DO NOT attempt to quietly go about your business, as the consequences of an unceremonious expulsion of gas or more substantial matter might give you away, and cause you to feel even warmer than you might already. An anecdotal account will tell you that this never bodes well; the worst of it all occurs when you yourself know that the other person is determined to accomplish the same task as you (which ends in the number two), and you both silently acquiesce to engage in a game of statue, until one of you finally relents and abandons ship (or alternately, "t"), and surrenders back to your quarters where you wait impatiently for the next Opportune Moment.

3: Small-Talk


In this category, for incredibly obvious reasons, there is no "Do". No. Just do not, ever, engage in a bout of friendly conversation with anyone, ever, whilst in a bathroom... EVER (can I make myself more clear, here?). It does not matter if you are seeing this person's new haircut for the first time, or if they declare to you that they have fallen in love and are going on a whirlwind, romantic destination-wedding-adventure, or that their furry little friend is undergoing dental surgery and they'd appreciate your sympathy. Smile, nod, and politely exercise the same tactics as described earlier on in my musings concerning public transportation human-avoidance. I cannot stress this enough. Why, you may ask? Well, to counter that, let me ask YOU, my fine friend, this:

Do you enjoy having to speak in a strained voice with your fellow, all the while knowing that they know exactly what you are doing? By 'exactly' I don't simply mean they are thinking: "Oh yes, my friend here is emptying her bowels while she speaks to me"; I mean that they know exactly what you look like on that toilet: hunched over and concentrating on controlling too many muscles all at the same time, while trying to maintain composure of your vocal chords in keeping up a completely capricious conversation with the ceaseless conversationalist! Not a very attractive image, is it?

So please, spare your words for a lunch-time stroll or casual run-in at the kitchen counter; the time to discuss a report deadline (or something far more mundane) is not when you are about to relieve yourself of your abdominal toil. This definitely goes for both parties that wish to save face in a moment of bodily vulnerability that is, quite plainly, completely unavoidable to most human beings.

You might, at this time, be thinking, "what a load of crap I've just read," and although I would question your resolve to completely finish reading this post if you had not wanted to learn something of value, you would, technically, be correct.

"Walking" (aka Freezing) in a "Winter Wonderland" (aka Want-To-Kill-Yourself-Weather)

Goooood Moooorrrniiinnnggg Vietnaaaammm!! 

Oh wait, we're in Canada. If this was Vietnam, I wouldn't be waiting for my legs to thaw out. 

LIGHTBULB! (Please refer to Gru, from Illumination Studios' Despicable Me) 

I apologize for my long-time absence from the world wide web's infinite space of possibilities, my fellow net-Seekers! I have, of late, been immersed in many activities ranging from academia to sleepedemia. Life is SO busy for me, and you should all feel sorry for me instead of scrutinizing me for not entertaining you with my words. 

..... 

*cough* 

..... 

I'm kidding. Really, I'm not that pretentious. What I AM, however, is a Popsicle. Why, you ask? Because I live in Canada. Because this morning, in negative thirty-seven temperature, I ventured my way to my place of employment. Because I work on the other side of the universe. Because I forgot to wear long-johns (but then my pants wouldn't fit properly, and I'd be left adjusting myself in places where women should never adjust themselves). I know, I know... the weather is an extremely cliché topic, and everyone talks about how it shouldn't be used for conversation, yadda yadda yadda. But I say different! 

In Ottawa, the weather is perhaps the most discussed, as well as traffic, "those Senators", and Beaver Tails. Oh, and the Rideau Canal. Oh! And OC Transpo. All of these things have one common characteristic: When the weather changes, their circumstances deteriorate in most cases (buses, traffic, time management, breathing, sanity, etc.), and ameliorate in some (nothing better than a Beaver Tail in -27 weather, and the Rideau Canal becomes a skating rink!). 

Yes, friends, today I have experienced (not for the first time, of course), the tingling sensations of winter weather. The chilling breeze that rattles you to the core, the goosebumps at your hair follicles where you never even thought you had hair, frost on your eyelashes, frozen hair due to wetness, and my absolute favourite: icicles on the inside of your nose, creating a marvelous crystalline web between the tiny little hairs within each nostril. Oh, yes. How charming, to have nasal mucous frozen solid. I am not one to complain about cold weather. Indeed, many of my companions and chums-in-armes believe me to be clinically insane for my infatuation with Canadian winters. But, as any sane person may have deduced from previous posts, heat and I do not get along very well. At ALL. The thought of panting in the summertime much like a Terrier in heat is not exactly what I would call ideal. It quite literally makes me sick. But I digress. 

As I continue to make sure my extremities haven't yet succumbed to a failure to circulate blood, I leave you with some sound advice: cover your hands with some mittens or gloves, shelter your noggin with some tender wool and care, and call Hermione Granger to conjure some portable blue flames for you (always works for me). 

The rest, as they say, is up to the forces external. 

But if you're smart enough, a stalactite doesn't hurt nearly as much when in falls on a head being cuddled by soft toques or fluffy hoods than on a bare skull.**

** Credits to hoot for pointing the error out. But of course, if this is the first time you're looking at this, you'll never know. 

ZZZzzz. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!

Good evening, blog perusers and Internet accomplices.

I hope this post finds you in good health, with your brains resting in the soft covers of your fluffy, feather-filled headrests that I like to call pillows. Other terms that can be used are: head-cushions, brain comforters, forehead squash-bags, cranium sacks, and noggin-chairs (these terms are expressly in their use for the highest part of the human body. For heel-pouffes, please refer to the term foot-cushions).

I, on the other (and infinitely less fortunate) hand, am suffering from a mild bout of insomnia. This is because I have been, most disconcertingly, dozing off all over the place today, and as such have regained my strength through putting my neck through many nodding-off-then-being-unceremoniously-woken-up exercises. Trust me, friends, you are not alone, for today we shall delve into that wonderful world in which you feel yourself fly, accumulate large amounts of wealth with a simple flick of your finger, ride a neon-yellow coloured elephant as tall as the Empire State building, and, especially in my case, sit on a bus without any hassle: the world of slumber, rest, relaxation, and the occasional dream in which your penchant for your favourite celebrity is no longer hindered by policemen, gates, or sweaty bodyguards.

You have experienced, I am sure, the spaced-out gaze which causes mild drooling and the very hazardous self-projection of insanity. I am no stranger to this. What I can never be accustomed to, however, is the audacity of some individuals. Here you are, staring out into the depths of your room, oblivious to the sounds and sights around you, not really thinking of anything, when suddenly, a snapping noise of clicking fingers interrupts your musings, and a hearty chuckle on the intruder's part, fully-equipped with a tremulous "Heh, heh, you were really zoned out, weren't you?" Of course, you will reply with a polite chuckle and a half-hearted apology, but the real thing you yearn to say is: "Yes, you dim-witted, worthless pile of coyote droppings, I was. Until you butt in."

I agree, friends, it is never a situation in which one hopes to be found. More astounding, however, is the tolerance that you experience from your fellow stranger, in most cases. At this time, I do not refer to mere blank-expressioned eyes, but to a much more startling reality. The dreaded Nod-Off-Contestation (NOC). The NOC can occur at any time, when you least expect it. I, unsurprisingly, have encountered this most during my frequent trips aboard the public-transport-express; it is rather horrifying, and let me explain to you why.

Picture this: 7:09AM. You have hardly slept a wink and must now face a 1.5 hour bus-ride to work, then another 8.5 hours of work itself, and the return trip (sometimes involving grocery shopping or a quick trip to the pharmacy) of about 2.0 hours, including rush-hour time. You have a very long day ahead of you. So long and complicated, in fact, that you begin to feel the weight of it pressing on your frontal lobes, then travelling to and exerting pressure on your eyelids, and finally settling deep within the fibres of your levator scapulae. You begin to breathe deeply, for the exertion is so strong that you need to calm yourself slowly. You close your eyes to attempt to clear your head, entering a peaceful, silent sp--BAM! Your eyes fly open, your neck snaps up, and you feel as though someone has slapped you with a very large, very moist rubber chicken.

You, my friend, have just experienced NOC. It is worse than being told that your dental appointment has been cancelled. Do you know why that is? Because appointments can be re-scheduled. There is no redemption from the NOC. You have made a complete idiot of yourself in front of a horde of on-lookers, and probably given your neighbour the fright of a lifetime, causing him or her to give you a fish-eyed glare and subject you to the Subtle Ass-Shift, which will, as has been previously discussed, make you feel even worse than you already do.

I feel for you, though. At least your neighbour was nice enough to just do that. I once experience a lady who stabbed me in the side with her knobbly elbows when I accidentally fell asleep beside her and started to creep slowly into her personal space in my unconscious state (I know you've done this before, too. Don't lie to yourself).

Next time, do yourself a favour, and go to bed one hour earlier. Which is exactly what I have not done, and will likely have explosive-nod-off-contestation-diarrhea tomorrow morning, and throughout the day.

The solution? An engaging chapter about the Imperius Curse, bouncing white ferrets, and never-ceasing, CONSTANT VIGILANCE**.





**Please refer to Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire for more details.

The Wheels on the Bus Go... V.2.0 - Unentered Territory

Good morning, my comrades-in-[cyberspace]arms. Today, on this lovely, sunny, (yet disappointingly) moderately humid start to the day, permit me to once again delve into the depths of the auto-bus, that vessel which manifests the definition of, and I do dare say... public transit.
Yes, again, friends, I must speak of this convenient yet highly and continuously disconcerting reality that surrounds travelling by bus. I have come to the realisation that you, my dear and somewhat dreadful friend, will never give up. I do not understand what it is about me... perhaps I emit an unpleasant scent, perhaps it is because I have a tangled mane of dark, curly hair that puts people off, perhaps it is my lack of war-paint that hides my flaws, or perhaps it is because I am the weird individual always reading a Harry Potter book at 7:09AM... but it seems that in rush-hour mornings, where the groggy travellers stumble and trudge down the narrow aisles to find a place to deposit themselves, my neighbouring seat is, MOST regrettably, never occupied by a stranger... which, even more regrettably, leads to YOU sitting beside ME.
In regular circumstances, the presence of An Unknown beside me would be unnerving. For example: everyone has experienced either directly or indirectly, the Subtle Ass-Shift in order to give oneself three more millimetres of space in that cramped, stiff, and severely uncomfortable pre-determined range of space we call a seat on the bus. That infinitesimal movement that condemns you to feeling like a complete whale beside someone (then immediately you sit up straighter, suck in your stomach, and put your bag or newspaper or elbows around your midriff to hide the spare glutenous material spilling over your belt-line ). You sense that, had you been more attractive-looking, or had better perfume/cologne on, or simply just stood, you could have avoided the tension now plaguing you, while you so desperately attempt not to touch the person beside you for fear of earning a fish-eyed glare that scrutinizes you and makes you feel even more like you don't belong in this position, and WHY FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DID I EVER SIT DOWN HERE, I FEEL LIKE I'M ON TRIAL.
Indeed, unwanted neighbours on the bus are never preferrable over a good, hearty chat with a best friend or a sibling, but, as I have mentioned in previous times, this sort of familiar company is not desirable in the Ante Meridian (AM). What I did not discuss last time was the interesting and positively dripping with the utmost hilarity (not) situation where you do not see the dreaded familiar face climb the bus, and they approach your regrettably-vacant-I-wish-someone-else-sat-here seat, all the while making direct physical contact (meaning staring you right in the eye and poking you simultaneously) right before they plop their happy-go-lucky, peppy, smiley face right beside you.
Mind you, it is only 7:14 in the morning and I have only had 5 minutes to delve into the world of Boggarts, Ordinary Wizarding Levels, and Draco Malfoy, when I get caught COMPLETELY by surprise. Yes, I am disgruntled, thank you for asking. Only you didn't ask. You started a pathetic conversation again. You asked me what I did last weekend ("Oh, not much, you know." [please shut up please shut up please shut up]), what I did this week ("Hahahaha, just work, you know!"[i'm only laughing to alleviate my frustration please shut up]), what I am doing this week ("Working some more, just like you! Hahahah!" [i really wish you'd shut up]), and what I am going to do this weekend ("Oh, I think I'll just relax, you?!" [it's none of your business anyway shut up]). Thank you for your persistent and prying interest in my personal life, but I'll pass.
Next time, I will leave my house earlier. That way, even if the bus doesn't fill up, I won't feel like a complete loser for not having a stranger sit next to me. I will avoid the plaguing sensation associated with forced conversation, in case you decide to sit beside me again. I will carry more items with me so I look more preoccupied, and maybe fill the vacant seat-void with my lunch bag. Next time, I am going to fall asleep on the bus, and I sincerely hope that you don't bother me, because as nasty as I am after 1.14 hours of being awake, you have no idea what lies in store for you with a just-awakened me.

As J.K. Rowling so wisely put it:


DRACO DORMIENS NUNQUAM TITILLANDUS*

*Translation: Never Tickle a Sleeping Dragon.

The Wheels on the Bus Go...

A sticky, humid morning welcomes me as I open my bleary eyes this day. Not ideal. But still, with a reluctant and positively awkward demeanour,I stagger out of bed in order to ready myself for another day of travel, adventure, and occupation.
Yes, my fine-feathered friends (I truly am hoping at some point that Big Bird will read this; for now, I will utilize my imagination), I have come to regard my workplace with a certain amount of tenderness, with those humming fluorescent lights, those obscured visions of civilization captured through blind-covered windows, and that faint scent of photocopying machines lingering in the heavily conditioned air. Before I can enjoy these perks, however, I must embark on a journey through the city streets and highways, by way of (dare I say it)... PUBLIC TRANSIT.
Aaaahhhh, the wonderfully un-crisp morning. It is 6:57AM and already small beads of perspiration are forming along the contours of my face. Charming. The r u s h to catch the bus further heightens the amount of discomfort that I experience during the course of this morning. Frazzled and frayed, I mount the steps to the bus, and seat myself in a rigid, barely-cushioned space after a careful selection, ensuring my solitude on the bus. Because we all know: no one wants to chat it up so very early in the day, or be the filling in a bus-and-human sandwich. In fact, we go so out of our way to avoid human contact, that we rely on print novels and sound-obliterating earphones to assist us! There is nothing wrong with this approach, however, but I do feel myself a bit unfriendly when, deliberately, upon seeing a familiar face just climb on to the same bus, I avert my eyes, and suddenly realize just how astounding my fingernails really are.
I do apologize if I have committed this perceived faux-pas against you, my dear friend, but believe me, you are -much- better off attempting not to make forced conversation with me at 7:06AM, while we both appear to have had very recent and very poorly conducted Botox surgery on our faces, especially when you know that you yourself do not want to speak to me, either. And when you purposefully and adorably, in an oblivious-to-my-lack-of-response-to-you manner sit beside me, well, believe it or not, my seat-occupying scrumpet, I will still attempt to ignore your existence. And when you nudge me surreptitiously, hoping that I will turn your way, please start to understand that I really do not want to talk to you, because at this point I am SO ABSORBED in my book that not a hurricane nor a tornado will mar my focus. But when you poke me quite forcefully after many failed attempts, and I start, jerk around and pretend that I have just met my long-lost relative, I evidently cannot hide myself in the shelter of my now-intruded bubble of space. And when I wipe the beaming smile off my face and make purposefully pathetic conversation with you, I hope you doubt your resolve to sit beside me, because our very brief talk will have comprised of pursed lips and much nodding, with many 'Yeah, for SURE's and 'I know!'s, and other statements declaring my agreement to your captivating story that I am only half-listening to, and a whole lot of strained silence that you so desperately attempt to puncture, my favourite parts of which are the times that we are stuck in traffic for a very long time, and you HAVE to comment on how bad the rush-hour jam is and delve into yet another utterly pointless story about your vehicle and gas prices and the weather and the ever-suffering economy, while I wait for you to busy yourself with something else so that I can return to my novel.

If I STILL fail at shaking you off, I will definitely send my comrades an electronic message with my cellular telephoning device, telling them how very annoyed I am and how I wish I had taken the later bus, while asking you to excuse me for my rudeness while I send a text message to my co-worker. And if you most unfortunately ask me politely prying questions about my employment, I will say "It's great, I really like it!" and ask you to excuse me once more, because I WILL go so far as to imagine that I have received a phone call, and converse with myself. Hopefully, at this point, you will realize that I am actively attempting to derail your mission to talk with me, because I will keep doing it until one of us departs. By the time this fiasco is completed, I will be so drained that I will wonder whether it was really worth trying so hard, and will feel pretty horrible for shunning your company so profusely, which will result in me feeling like a terrible person all day, but really, I will justify to myself, it is you to blame, because if I had successfully hidden myself well enough and avoided you, all of this never would have happened. So thank you for destroying my morning*.
I really do ask for you to pardon my behaviour, but you should really have gotten the gist of it when we made the initial eye contact and I quickly turned my head to look out the window at the fire hydrant that suddenly became a magnet for my retinas. Maybe, just maybe, next time we can talk on the weekend, or at a later time in the morning, or any other time except 7:06AM, when I have only started my day one hour previous, and need some time to adjust to the heat, the unwanted liquids on my skin, and a seat that is causing a considerable amount of pain to my backside.

*Please be advised that I do not mean this post to be directed at anyone specifically; this is an amalgamation of experiences, and, as much as I have ranted, I do like you.

A Cubicle. Capital. And The Revelation.

Good morning, wary travelers of the world-wide web! I thank you for stumbling upon my page.

I write today to express certain feelings I've gathered after my (so far) short, yet very enlightening period of time spent in an 8' X 8' cubicle. I am surrounded by grey, floral-printed cloth, seated in a chair much larger than the average bear (yes, I enjoy Yogi Bear cartoons), with my office supplies neatly organized around me. In front of my faintly bewildered face (as it is still early in the morning and I have not bothered to paint my visage as of yet [and will likely not do so for the rest of the day]), is an astoundingly large piece of paper with a list of "Things-To-Be-Done" for the report-writing that I did approximately a week ago.

Why, you ask, do I have this piece of roughly scribbled-on paper still tacked to my cubicle (hereafter referred to as "The Cube") wall?

It is a fine piece of office art, is my answer. Yes, friends, for today I have come to realize that although The Cube possesses subtle hints of my individuality (a piece of notepad on which BE POSITIVE is written in block letters with a huge smile drawn beside it, a Harry Potter book placed carefully on the corner of my curvy desk, and two boxes of tupperware, one with dry Honey-Nut Cheerios in it), I crave more. More pens and pencils when I know that I will only use one or two during the course of my term, more pieces of official-looking paper that have meeting minutes on them, MORE trinkets such as Post-It notepads in different colours, hand sanitizer bottles, and lotion containers, and EVER MORE material possessions that can assist me in claiming my domain, in showing every co-worker who flits by The Cube that this is MY work area, filled with interesting little pieces of merchandise, the most of which is a violently purple door-hanger embroidered with a dancing monkey, claiming that it is either "born to dance" (an open invitation to enter The Cube), or that it is "all boogied out -- keep out!" (a clear indication that I am currently away on seemingly important business matters, or that I have gone home for the day). But I find myself asking, why must I feel the need to occupy my work space with material goods?

The answer: CAPITAL. I enjoy purchasing items. I feel satisfied that I can adorn my cube with THINGS. As much as I would like to say that I am upper-middle-class, that I have certain luxuries not available to others (which is true), popular education has taught me otherwise: labelled me as a lowly student with an agency job serving the public, likewise known as a poor old sod in the petit bourgeoisie, in Marxian terms (though I do not consider myself a true Marxist, I do enjoy what he brings to the table). What right do I have, buying papers and pens and other supplies to make myself happy? Am I -really- at the top of the food chain, when someone else makes these things for my pleasure? I would say NOT.

The true kings in the world are, and I deviate from the obvious leaders with heap-loads of disposable income, those who do not answer to anyone. The vagabonds, the 'liberated spirits', the obviously care-free souls who have really no business in the corporate junkyard we call our jobs, professions, and qualifications. Hats-off to them, I say. For, despite the fact that I would once have categorized myself as such, I am constantly plagued with the disease of self-assurance through social acceptance. The yearning for a place in league with the capitalist giants that will grant me heap-loads of disposable income so that I can perhaps decorate my work space with -real- fine works of art, my desk with complicated, intellectual pieces of writing composed by me and other gurus, and my walls with awards and medals telling the world to look at me while I succeed, and while it fails so miserably at being as great as I am. Oh, THE PRESTIGE!

But I shake my head and laugh at the thought of one day being a millionaire, a billionaire, a some-really-really-large-illionaire. Because I know that, although I am now part of the corporate world, I can never reach the top without resorting to exploiting others around me, which is something I vow never to do. I cannot lie, cheat, or steal. I have not the physical or mental capacity to invent something totally revolutionary (or, as is the norm today, an extension of something totally revolutionary).

Too bad.

I really would have liked a Dali on The Cube. But I guess an astoundingly large piece of paper with a list of "Things-To-Be-Done" for the report-writing that I did approximately a week ago will just have to do.