Some say there are two types of confidence: there is the confidence of the expert, someone who has studied extensively and learnt all there is to know in a particular field; and there is the confidence of the fool.
…
Some say there is one type of confidence.
What do you call it when the Cookie Monster invites you over to try a new cookie that he will bake just as soon as the secret ingredient arrives?
Om nom nomi nominous.
My friend, who works as a butcher, has been working on his stand-up comedy routine. He said I was welcome to use any of his left over material. So I took a look…
.
.
…but it was just offal.
There was some confusion at work, resulting in a long email chain. Basically, a recently uploaded file had been appended with a different version number to the most recent version saved in the archive (“the vault”) which was supposed to be the source of truth. When explanations failed to hit the mark I resorted to poetry.
.
Reality is multifaceted, they say.
The way which can be spoken is not the true way.
We find our anchors where we may.
Our source of truth, the Vault remains.
If there’s a mistake, then realities change.
Version 1.1 and 2 are the same.
.
It seemed to do the trick. Practical mysticism is a thing.
Dance like your webcam is turned off,
love like the trolls never hurt.
Sing like your microphone’s broken,
live from home like it’s heaven on earth.
– Mark Twain (almost)
First week in lockdown. My house is full of pot plants. Refugees from my once shared office, now abandoned.
The thought crossed my mind this morning, I should name these tiny trees, my new green leafed colleagues. Give them individual identities. Keep me company.
But then I remembered how bad I am with names. What if I forget them? How uncomfortable, to be in the ‘office’ every day, avoiding using proper nouns, for fear of embarrassment. “There s/he is!” “Hey, you!” “I wouldn’t be able to borrow a business card would I?” “Have you met my friend?”
The social anxiety may get too much. I’d have to make excuses for not coming in. Just stay in bed. Under the covers. I think they’re talking about me. I hear their leaves rustling. No, surely not. I’m being paranoid. They don’t care. Nobody talks to me anyway. So impersonal. They don’t even know my name.
Why does the media triple ply us with the terror of shelves wiped free of TP, only furthering the run of a shitty situation? Sure I’m poo pooing this, but you know urinal lot of trouble people are literally tearing at each other in the aisles because they can’t get their hands on some soft cushiony toilet paper. I know our butts are on the line, but this is breaking families apart – as they go to different aisles to get around the ‘one carton per transaction’ rule.
C.T. Curio 