Four Seconds to Hot Up the Disintegrator and Google had Told Me it Wasn’t Enough*

Do you ever get on Google and start typing something stupid, like

i want…
help me…
i can’t…
why can’t i…

I want [food/distraction/a new job].
Help me [make an omelette/find a book to read/quit my job without ruffling any feathers].
I can’t [eat. My teeth hurt./concentrate. I’m exhausted./hop jobs again. That would be three in six months.]
Why can’t I [just go to sleep/just go to sleep/just go to sleep]?

Or you start typing and don’t stop, like

book packagers who hire ghostwriters NOT romance NOT military sci-fi NOT those YA dystopians with the love triangles and the needlessly defiant protagonists, and they all end the same, please no, not again, just not that

what does it mean when your body does half a hiccup and you feel a moment of nausea, then it passes?

…or you don’t know what to type, so you put in some nonsense, like why don’t my shoes fit? (You’re not wearing shoes.)

Is it just me? Say it isn’t.

I had a job interview today. It didn’t go well. It was one of those ones where you find out halfway that you’re in the wrong place. You’ve cocked up, you’re trapped, and what can you say? You can’t just come out with it, like “my God, is that all? I’d make more slinging fries.” You’ve got to finesse it, like “that’s not what I, ehhhh…. I can’t handle, uh…sorry. Wrong door. Didn’t mean to come in. I’ve wasted your time. Sorry. Sorry.” I hit peak Canadian, noping out of that. (It wasn’t the pay, or not just the pay. It was the job. It didn’t catch my interest. My next hop has to count. I’m not doing this all year.)

book packagers with high-energy virtual office environments and huge volumes of work, oh, and horror. please let them do horror, or if not horror, something horror-adjacent. Black Mirror-style sci-fi, or some of Larry Niven’s short stories. I liked Bordered in Black.

Please, Google, find me a job. The one I’ve got, oh…. Everyone’s lovely. So kind. But I spend half my time sitting on my arse. I’ve had five days of work this month. I need five days a week.

work…
what do i do when i…
why…
w…

When’d it get so late? I’ve been sat here for hours.

Here’s a question for Google: if I wrote a mean book about Amazon, but I called them Euphrates, could they take me to court? Could they win? (I’d imagine the answers would be yes and maybe.)

I’m all up in a bunch today. Dissatisfied, sort of thing. I’m not in more pain than usual. I’m not suffering in any way. I’ve got the hump, is all. Life’s giving me the hump. Call me Rigoletto. Quasimodo. Humperdoo.

Here’s a bit of a picture I haven’t finished. Feels about right for today.

* With apologies to Raymond Chandler.