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Забастовка
Dec. 20th, 2005 09:14 amСидим дома с лэптопом и блэкберри. Ни х** серьёзного не делаем. Более того, валяемся под одеялом, периодически рассылая рабочие мылы, изображая активность. Впрочем, не избежать нам 10ам конференц-колла...
Dec. 20th, 2005
Да ну вас на х** с вашими утренниками!
Dec. 20th, 2005 06:42 pmI stand corrected. Работал из дому, в основном по мылу и бб, 12 часов подряд. Ну как такая х**ня получается. Семь часов, а я есть иду в первый раз...
Something is to be said...
Dec. 20th, 2005 11:27 pm...about certainty of things.
I may not know a lot about the fate of the universe. Or its origins for that matter.
I do not know what drives the course of events around me.
It could all be simply a Brown's mess of random happenings.
Or it could be an intelligently designed string of tiny sharp micro-vectors of destiny, pushing the universe towards its predetermined end.
Who knows.
I do, however, know one thing with a great deal of certainty.
I am going to die on a Tuesday.
The means and timing of my no doubt sorry exit are shrouded in mystery. It may be as intense and dramatic as a victim of one of my indiscretions, finally having had enough, getting a .45 a week from now and shooting a few extra orifices in my body. But I am not that interesting, really. So it may simply be as prosaic and casual as a heart attack fifty years from now.
It doesn't matter.
What matters is the day of the week.
I am going to die on a Tuesday.
I may not know a lot about the fate of the universe. Or its origins for that matter.
I do not know what drives the course of events around me.
It could all be simply a Brown's mess of random happenings.
Or it could be an intelligently designed string of tiny sharp micro-vectors of destiny, pushing the universe towards its predetermined end.
Who knows.
I do, however, know one thing with a great deal of certainty.
I am going to die on a Tuesday.
The means and timing of my no doubt sorry exit are shrouded in mystery. It may be as intense and dramatic as a victim of one of my indiscretions, finally having had enough, getting a .45 a week from now and shooting a few extra orifices in my body. But I am not that interesting, really. So it may simply be as prosaic and casual as a heart attack fifty years from now.
It doesn't matter.
What matters is the day of the week.
I am going to die on a Tuesday.