Right now I want to tell you about… the twins. Our department recently hired two identical twins. Melinda and Belinda. I'm serious. I have not had the priviledge of meeting the twins yet, but I've definitely seen them. Unfortunately, this is not some crazy Playboy scenario where two beautiful twins show up out of nowhere. These twins aren't exactly Playboy material. But what strikes me as really odd is that these identical twins are the kind of identical twins that feel obligated to DRESS EXACTLY THE SAME!! I never once understood this. Perhaps its the only way that the cult of identical twins can get revenge on this cruel world which has stolen their ability to be a true individual. So instead, they embrace the person that is-them-but-not-them, and they take some sort of sick pleasure in causing everyday-people the pain of, “Oh, I'm sorry you're not Belinda… you just look the same, and…” They join together in an unstoppable force of dual-confusion, laughing back in all of our faces… Ah ha, except for the fact that Melinda always wears a necklace, and Belinda doesn't.
Well played twins… well played…
My cubicle is right next to the corner of the office area that has all of the wires and cables connected for the telephone, the computer network and the electricity. This provides for the occasional excitement of repair-men coming in and cursing at wiring problems, etc… There is also, the network technician. Now, I understand, and most people would agree, that talking to oneself is not always a bad thing. We all do it from time to time. The occasional, sarcastic, “Way to go!” to oneself, or a, “C'mon, you can do this.” Along with any other number of inspirational or self-flagellating comments. But then there's the network technician. It is like he vocalizes every single part of his thought process. He debates with himself about his options to fix a certain cable, he swears at himself for screwing up, and he reaffirms and triply reaffirms his decisions about repairs. An example of a few minutes listening to him, might go something like this (trust me, this is pieced together from actual things that I've heard):
bq. “Allright, what do we have here? Looks like this cable goes to that trailer… Then which one is this? Who the fuck put this here? Those stupid sons of bitches who fuck around with– …and look at this! Oh, this one must go over here. OK, that makes sense. But that means I need to get a new box right here. Right? Yeah, because I can't bring this over there without another one right here. I need to put a box here. There's no two ways about it. Yup. No two ways about it. You're so stupid, of course you need to. There's no other option. Because this can't reach over there without it. And I can't put another line in, until I have another box. Yeah, there's no two ways about it. I've got to get another one. OK then, I'll put another one in . . .”
That's enough, I think you get the idea. Oh, and just the other day, to top it all off, he was singing too… “Her name was Lola… She was a showgirl…”
I dreamt I was at home with my family and I was getting ready to go out with friends, but we had unexpected guests arrive. It was some family friends, and a bunch of British and Irish people with them. Instead of going out, I had to stay and be social with them. At dinner time, we were getting ready to sit down, but decided to go to the British people's house instead. It was a fancy old house, kind of like my great uncle's. While they were preparing dinner, my sister and I played with a life-size, animatronic, white-tiger. It was like one of those robotic pets, but was covered in fur, sat about 3 1/2 feet tall, and looked completely realistic. We were able to get it to stand up and walk a little. We also tried riding it, since it was a robot and could support our weight. I had deja-vu about the tiger, as if I'd dreamt about it before. We finally sat down for dinner and it was quite awkward with all the British folk that we didn't know too well. The food was weird, the glasses and silverware were not in their normal places, and I kept using the wrong utensils…
I felt strong. No, not emotionally, or mentally. Not strong-willed, nor a strong personality, nor a strong presence. Just physically strong. The plain old, jock-esque, kind of strong. I'd never felt that before… Well, maybe once… Way back in sixth grade when arm-wrestling was the measure of popularity, and I managed to beat out another contender, securing myself as not the scrawniest pseudo-popular kid, but the *second* scrawniest. This time was very different. I wasn't competing against anyone. I was just clawing and pinching at rough plastic-resin, trying to pull myself up a plywood wall, a few feet higher off the ground. For a moment, I defied myself and defied every expectation that I had for myself. In those few seconds, I arm-wrestled myself and won. Hands-down.