I’m all jazzed up and jip joppery, sitting here in my office loaded on caffeine and plugging 80’s dance remixes straight into my cerebral cortex. It’s morning hours and I feel like hitting a club, feeling like stepping out onto one of those 70’s glowing dance floors composed of neon cubes and just going nuts for about 30 minutes before collapsing due to cardiac arrythmia or whatever. There I was, in the kitchenette (glory) and I had sloshed my mug half full of the crude oil equivalent of coffee. Reaching out with my right arm across my chest to my left side, I snagged two, say it TWO bags of hot chocolate powder and tore their tops off like a lacivious King Kong might the bra’s of naomi campbell’s bikinis. Or whatever. Dumped them in, and the coffee grew all chokky and thick, slurred and heavy. I tipped in some milk, shook up the cement like mixture and began to shove it down my throat with a spatula.
Running, knowing that time was of the essence (the essence of what, though!?!?), I got back to my CORNER OFFICE (interior corner), and put on some sweet licks and nasty chops (READ: Hot Chip – DJ Kicks), and began to work. And by work I mean stare at stuff on my desk in bug eyed wonder, feeling frazzled and jazzed up, twitchy and as if my arms were loaded with massive invisible ants under my skin.
Each ant is about half a foot long, and looks like those pictures taken through electron microscopes (though more of a translucent gray). They run from my shoulder (or, more accurately, appear in full flight at my shoulder, having most likely ported in from some other place), and then scurry down to my wrists where they disappear. Of course, a cross flow of traffic comes up my arms too, with other ants (the same, returning? electronicus antus redux?) coming back up. Now, I picture them walking over my skin, but somehow my skin is also radiating a field of inclusion that extends about six inches above its surface, so that these ants are pulled into my body’s sense of self, are in fact sensed under my skin though they walk above it.
Mostly they’re walking on my left arm. There’s but one or two on my right, which means, I think, that my left arm is the one most capable of nasty licks and naughty chops.
Ok. I think it’s time to go do some work. I’d best have my supervisor review what I write though before I post it on the company website. You never know.