The Houston Grind

First, I have to agree with you, sir. A man will do anything believe anything suffer anything, if he's getting laid w/enough frequency. Anything. There is no religion I wouldn't adopt, no task I wouldn't perform, if I thought the endgame was a blowjob or some other form of nut-bustage. Agreed, absolutely.

Begins the third day in Houston. Cold is slowly building to a crescendo of mucous-choked coughs and sneezes; the crappy road food is lodged in my gut like the a loutish grown child who won't move out of your basement.
Last night I tossed and turned and emitted wavering red clouds (think Creepy Fogs from the old Scooby Doo episodes). In my half-sleep I would wake w/a sense of pride and anxiety at the monstrosity I'd just created and, cracking an eye, would take an indulgent, parental sniff (Chinese) before continuing my restless sleep.

So this is the grindy grindy part of being on the road. When you feel all punched-in but you go to the office anyway because really, where else you goanna go?

Today I'll diagram more systems on more whiteboards for more anxious, beetle-browed Indian fellows who will invariably tell me that they understand, they understand perfectly, and then they'll walk away without understanding a damned thing and the whole process will start over again. World without end. The eternal return of Nietzsche at work in the business processes of a software company. On days like this it's not hard to imagine that life is an eternal procession of conference rooms, squeaking felt pens, obsequious Indians, bad dinners, and hotel rooms where the day parts your curtains with its gray neuralgic hand, beckoning you out to begin it all again.

Having said all that, I'm kind of happy. Don't know why.