Epitaph

I'm not sure if it is the storyteller in me or something more disturbingly morbid that ponders what folks will say about me when I'm "gone".

Anyway, I was e-mailing with a friend at work today (DISCLAIMER: except not really, because that's against the rules and quite simply, I would never break the rules) - so we're e-mailing and she was saying how some feature on a networking site was kind of dumb, but that didn't keep her from hearting it. As far as I'm concerned there are WAY worse descriptors. And that got me to thinking I wouldn't mind just such an eternal descriptor.

So those who will be in charge of such things (you know who you are) keep this in mind when it comes to the ol' marble and granite..

"For I Am A Pirate King"

That is to say, when it comes to the Cube Farm - I am considered a bit of a rogue. Less of the pillaging and plundering and more of the covert operations that, in fact, get real work done.

That is to say, I occasionally ignore the rules.

The rules at the Farm are great in number. We have manuals and work instructions and policies and, yes, procedures. We love us a good policy and procedure. And while I am all for living in an orderly society. I don't think I need a rule about how many pictures to post in my cubicle, nor how fast I should walk in the hallway (do not get me started on that one....well, tonight anyway).

So, I've gone a little Gilbert & Sullivan and gotten together some mateys of a similar ilk. We call ourselves "sanctioned pirates". That is to say, we are given some mighty goals and objectives and when no one's looking - we actually achieve them. I promise you - if I had to follow the rules, it would take me a whole day to log onto my computer.

And I'll tell you this - it feels good to be a pirate. No, I'll never have jewels and gold in a giant chest, and one day I shouldn't be surprised if they make me walk the plank. But today, I can hold my head high (well, as high as is allowed in the Farm) and know that sometimes rogue is the only way to go. And anyone who has felt the wind on their face out on the open seas of Corporate America will tell you - it's good to be a pirate.


For a little on my favorite Corporate Pirate, visit Captain Steve Crescenzo...

Skeletons in the Cupboard

I like the way the Brits put it better. Doesn't cupboard just sound better than closet? Anyway, I was actually cleaning out some cupboards and found "The Bag".

The Bag has existed in many shapes and forms over my life, but currently resides in the furthest shelf in my big closet, as a brown Hardings sack. The form which it has taken is less important than what it holds.

The Bag currently holds a few random items, well, not really random. They are all gifts from The Amazing Douchebag.

What? Men can name their penises but I can't name an ex-boyfriend?

NOTE: I could have simply called him Douchebag, but he really was a Douchebag amongst Douchebags, so let's give the fucktard some credit.

Anyway, The Amazing Douchebag left behind many relics from our brief stint together, all of which I dutifully returned to him (none of which he returned to me, but let's shelf that, shall we?). I did not snatch any t-shirts or books, they have all found their way back into his hands. What I did keep were the gifts from him. Mainly, to see if they could potentially shed the sentimentality once linked to them and become valued members of the group I like to call "my stuff".

I've already given away the Calligraphy Kit and I threw a cool red scarf back in the bag to give it more time to ferment and potentially become "mine" and not "something from him". But I pulled out a little gem that I'm pretty sure can now come out without gacky reminders of D'bag. It is a book called "The Bodacious Book of Succulence".

Is that a great title or what? I swear, I wish that were the name of my biography "The Bodacious Book of Succulence: a biography."

Anyway, it's a book by a writer about writing and there's nothing I like more than the self-indulgence of writers and the pontification of what it takes to be one. (Hint: it helps if you put your fingers on the keys and stop reading books about writers on writing)

Well, I opened up this book and while occasionally it provides wits and wisdoms on writing - it's more about writing your own life story. I mean - living your life story. Am I still being obtuse? Pretty much it's saying, stop being such a cry baby about what isn't happening, hasn't happened, should have happened - and get busy making it happen.

I'm a tough love sort of person - so this speaks to me. And maybe it's time to get busy "getting over it" You know? Pull The Bag out of the cupboard. Wear the scarf or pitch it. Read the book and forget the man who bought it for you. It's all about being a bigger person.

Except maybe I'm not quite that big yet. Until then send my regards to The Amazing Douchebag - right now that's the best I can do.

Silverman 4 President

Okay, maybe not - but I think Sarah Silverman is pretty effing hysterical and if you don't, well, check out this link and see if you still feel that way...