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Short weeks rock.

I was wallowing in a general funk this morning. I started thinking about what to daylog. How to fill this little channel for venting my bile and cursing my foes. Somebody switched the keys on my keyboard this morning. A quick trip to www.cmm.con showed me that. It is to laugh. I pried the keys off the keyboard, this little altar at which I sacrifice my youth for money.

Then I sat back, looked around, and laughed.

This is all so absurd. I get paid to bang bits in to shapes. This entire existence is insane. It is as pointless a task as has ever been done.

My mind is a playhouse. I sat daydreaming over the first part of this entry. Let me paint you a picture:

I am a lowly scribe sitting at my easel, over-looking a vast array of soldiers. They are dressed in the most dazzling array of Feudal Japanese armor, sparkling in the sun like diamonds.

My task? Count the barrels of rice. Write the numbers in dark black ink onto sheets that will fade into time, unread and unimportant.

The General assures me my work is essential, that I help preserve the Empire.

I pen a little note.

Screw you General Funk.