I want to be at luke-boo's house, playing network doom, eating chicago town mini-pizzas.

I want to be curled up in bed in a bright spring/winter morning, watching cd:uk with marion.

I want a full-on Hollywood panic attack, writhing on the ground outside my suburban detached house looking like bill neighy, in a dressing gown, while paramedics fit me with an oxygen tank and the camera moves away and upwards, surveying the emotional carnage which is all just a set, you can tell because it's all to clean.

They think I'm stupid here. I accidentally dropped one private folder into another, and couldn't move it back. I went and reported it to the IT guys, and watched poke around a bit to fix it, which I could have done instantly if only I had the permissions. My mouse didn't work – the buttons or anything – and the same man came and cleaned the dust off the track wheel (which wouldn't explain why the buttons hadn't been working, or why sometimes it had a fit), and it was fine.

I *am* stupid here. I can't think. I miss simple things, forget what all this paper is for. I'm terrified of the responsibility of delegating to this other temp finding things for someone else to do. when an error page came up on the internet, I was terrified that those techie guys had noticed my inherent flitting over to see stuff, a low attention span is a habit I've always had. things drift to the bottom of the pile until they're irrelevant, sometimes if you do ignore things for long enough, they go away, like survivors in dead rising.
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