This entire week has been like one very long Monday. It has been like Dante’s inferno in slow motion, except I wasn’t Dante and didn’t win the girl or the grace of God. I was all those unfortunates he walked past, gave a tourist wave to, shrugged and left alone, while demons burned the soles of my feet. Thanks alot, Dante!
I turned on Silverchair’s Frogstomp this morning instead of listening to the radio. I felt immensely good and self-justified as the first line of Israel’s son boomed across the room, probably stirring the drunk on the 4th floor; I HATE YOU.
I don’t hate anyone. It’s just good to say it sometimes. I hate you.
I’ve eaten spaghetti with sausages the entire week. It still doesn’t taste good.
It could definitely be the glue.
Since they started re-decorating, or rather turning my universe upside down, there has been a faint smell of glue around this open office. Headaches have become more frequent, some weak individuals refrain from coming to work, others have moved – and here I’m stuck. It’s like being lost on an island where you know that only brainpower can save you, but the only thing you’ve got to eat is hashish cookies and coke. That’s not coke as in coca cola coke.
Working with IT and sniffing glue doesn’t go that well together, apparently.
Incidently, this particular office is called Plata (the Plateau). If you’ve ever been to Oslo and stumbled into this small, squareish park just outside the city trainstation, you’ve been to Plata. Before the police began their blitzkrieg on drugs – which didn’t lead to anything good – it was filled with the most hardcore heroinists, used needles and drugdealers. For some reason, my office was called Plata. We are only young, underpaid people working here, and we don’t say no to a good party – any day at all.
But this glue is getting to me. I don’t sleep well, and I get the itches when I’m not at work. And I have been doing more overtime than usual lately. Am I physically addicted to work? I dunno. Can’t focus. Need a cigarette. Have a nice weekend.