[[third draft, proofed by Vera Alves and some busy-body do-gooder. ]]
Fairfax magazines saw two big changes in the last two weeks.
The first one is that as of the July 5 issue, Fairfax will cease to publish Reseller News, which means I’m going to be out of work from July 4 onward.
In a completely unrelated development, the company just installed an automatic external defibrillator in the atrium.
I’m not sure what to make of the phrase in quotes. Is it to hint that we are in fact allowed to fuck around with the AED. even when it’s not an “emergency”?
I like that the machine will talk you through it. But I’m sure we all know how to use a defibrillator from television. You rub the paddles together, jolt the victim and then start chest compressions, while shouting, “Don’t quit on me, man. Live, damn it, live. Don’t give up on me.” But it might be more fun to let the machine say it.
I’m not the only person being made redundant. It’s me and nine other people. I feel bad for them. And I feel awesome for myself. Because this turn of events has actually had a positive effect. I feel confident about myself for the first time in my life, even though I’ve decided to switch careers entirely, and seek work as a comedy writer. So, the other plus to the change is I’ve gone completely insane. The transition was subtle–I hardly noticed the difference.
Except that with my new self-confidence, I realize there need to be some changes around here. I know all of you people look up to me as some kind of demi-god, as a gladiator of the arts and letters. I’m like Gertrude Stein, with an extra penis. Picasso’s.
Anyway, I appreciate your adulation and support, but really. It’s not nearly enough.
This Zarathustrian transition will be hardest on those I speak with face-to-face. Because I tend to spit on them a lot when we’re talking.
That used to make me feel remorse, and I would apologize to them for spitting. And without fail, they will always answer, “You didn’t spit on me.”
Bullshit. You know very well I spat on you. You’re just trying to make me look like an idiot by being the one to draw attention to the spit. And you don’t respect my culture. I come from a long line of spit-talkers. Thanksgiving growing up was like a bunch of dueling automatic sprinkler heads. We are a moist, expressive people.
Similarly, if we part after spending time with each other, I refuse to take care not to run into you again after saying goodbye. It happens too often. You go to a business meeting. You make an excuse after 20 minutes to get back to the office. And after saying goodbye, you run into each other, in the elevator, or at the adult video store inside one of those booths.
The awkward re-meet is one of the biggest pains in the ass in public life, and you should all know that I have spent much of my time not just avoiding the re-meet, but of meeting in the first place.
No more. In fact, you can expect from me not just one awkward re-meets, but several in the same night. I may turn up in the elevator. I may turn up already tucked in your bed. Doesn’t matter. Because I’m not going to be taken for granted any more. Which means, to all you workmates, mates and mate, buckle up. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.