Self-inflicted injury

This afternoon I sat down and tried reading a book for the first time in probably a year. (First time I’ve tried reading a book for fun, that it; most of the books I read these days are technical books.) Nothing challenging—Gosick, a translation of a Japanese light novel, selected precisely because it should be an easy read—except for the fact that it was challenging.

I had the damnedest time sitting down and simply reading a dumb book, because my mind would wander all over hill and dale. I’ve given myself a mild case of ADD in the six years since I graduated from college: I’m so used to doing three things at once that my ability to focus on one thing exclusively has atrophied.

That’s a drastic change from the mono-tasking person I used to be. Problem is, I’m certain I was more efficient—and proficient—at getting things done back when I focused on one thing at a time.

So, uh… Who has two thumbs and is going to be reading more books?

Poor Julie’s been in labor since this morning. Poor Andy has been getting unhelpful emails from me and Brian, suggesting that he play music to encourage Julie, or viewing famous quotes through the prism of childbirth (open the pod bay doors, HAL).

To be honest, those were both from me—Brian’s not guilty of these crimes.

Me, but you, but me: The internet has pretty much taught me to skim text, so it’s rare when something I read gives me pause. This stopped me cold.

Turning a cubicle into a home

When Lindsay first joined my office and was walking around making her introductions, her first question of me was if I had recently moved to my current desk. The reason was obvious, even to an oblivious person such as myself: I had no personal artifacts in my cubicle. White walls, desk holding up a computer and random papers, and a chair. If I randomly decided one evening to never return to my office, I’d leave nothing behind that screamed that I was the one who used to work there.

Obviously, I’m OK with that.

Still, I’ve wondered on occasion what I would decorate my cubicle with, if I were so inclined. No girlfriend, so no girlfriend pics; I don’t really take many pictures at all, save when I’m on vacation. (Even then, I seem to take one trip overseas every five years. And even that may soon fall through—I should be going again this year, if I want to maintain that trend.) I’m not exactly good with my hands, meaning my own handcrafted works would be more “art” than art. Anime isn’t really suitable for the work environment. I don’t much care for gewgaws. On and on… this thought process continues until there’s only one thing left standing: others’ artwork.

The best candidates I’ve idly found, so far, are Donkey Kong expressionism (which isn’t actually available for sale), and Untitled (Sad Vader) (which is available, but a bit steep for office décor). Marin doesn’t care for the latter, but I find it hilarious every single time I look at it—I can only imagine my coworkers’ reactions if that were to appear on my wall one day.

Phoenix Wright on the iPhone, for $5. No other game has so perfectly captured the thrill of calling people on their shit; I paid $30 for this on the DS, back in the day, and I don’t regret a penny of it.

*tap* *tap* This thing still on?

[Stealth Edit: the song’s OK, but the video… huh.]

Fun With Secret Questions & Answers: if you do over-the-phone banking (sadly, I do not), you really should follow this example.

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