Because I'm mad, you're mad...
June 9, 2004 - 5:49pm
Which Office Moron Are You?
Rum and Monkey: jamming your photocopier one tray at a time.
Stop crying, little one. You're the disarmingly young temp.
You had to get some kind of job when you left school, and nobody's willing to pick up a fresh-faced graduate and give them an amazing job. Not unless they're some kind of genius, anyway, and even then it's unlikely because geniuses make people uneasy. Clever people do not fit in offices.
So you're a temp. Working from short contract to short contract, dodging your officemates' condascending glances, you hope one day to have a real job. Until then, the fact that you look about twelve makes you an easy target both for tea-making duties and the perverted old boss.
Which Historical Lunatic Are You?
From the fecund loins of Rum and Monkey.
You are Charles VI of France, also known as Charles the Mad or Charles the Well-Beloved!
A fine, amiable and dreamy young man, skilled in horsemanship and archery, you were also from a long line of dribbling madmen. King at 12 and quickly married to your sweetheart, Bavarian Princess Isabeau, you enjoyed many happy months together before either of you could speak anything of the other's language. However, after illness you became a tad unstable. When a raving lunatic ran up to your entourage spouting an incoherent prophecy of doom, you were unsettled enough to slaughter four of your best men when a page dropped a lance. Your hair and nails fell out. At a royal masquerade, you and your courtiers dressed as wild men, ending in tragedy when four of them accidentally caught fire and burned to death. You were saved by the timely intervention of the Duchess of Berry's underskirts.
This brought on another bout of sickness, which surgeons countered by drilling holes in your skull. The following months saw you suffer an exorcism, beg your friends to kill you, go into hyperactive fits of gaiety, run through your rooms to the point of exhaustion, hide from imaginary assassins, claim your name was Georges, deny that you were King and fail to recognise your family. You smashed furniture and wet yourself at regular intervals. Passing briefly into erratic genius, you believed yourself to be made of glass and demanded iron rods in your attire to prevent you breaking.
In 1405 you stopped bathing, shaving or changing your clothes. This went on until several men were hired to blacken their faces, hide, jump out and shout "boo!", upon which you resumed basic hygiene. Despite this, your wife continued sleeping with you until 1407, when she hired a young beauty, Odette de Champdivers, to take her place. Isabeau then consoled herself, as it were, with your brother. Her lovers followed thick and fast while you became a pawn of your court, until you had her latest beau strangled and drowned.
A severe fever was fended off with oranges and pomegranates in vast quantities, but you succumbed again in 1422 and died. Your disease was most likely hereditary. Unfortunately, you had anywhere up to eleven children, who variously went on to develop capriciousness, great cruelty, insecurity, paranoia, revulsion towards food and, in one case, a phobia of bridges.
Summer is going just dandy. I ♥ lack of real responsibility. I mean, I have no money and no car, but I also only work 19 hours a week and party all the time.
Well, maybe not so much “party” as “watch DVDs, drink beer and take lots of walks”. But still, good times.
I'm wishing I didn't have to go back to school because I'm seeing the need for it less and less. I was on the very dorky, only slightly informative “Major Decisions” website yesterday to see if there was something—anything—that could provide an alternative to art school. The sad answer is, there is not. Every other major looks mind-boogling in its boringness, needlessly complicated, or very, very silly. (I mean, Turfgrass Management? Are they serious?)
Plus, I know, in my heart, that nothing else but art school will make me happy. So I'm resolved to keep fighting, despite some nay-sayers.
In other news, I think I'd like to own a record store. That sounds like the perfect job for me. Open at 10 or 11, talk about music all day, get new releases at wholesale. I feel like it's what I need to be doing before I'm 30. I just have to figure out how to go about it.
You are reading a post titled Because I'm mad, you're mad..., dated June 9, 2004. The previous post, dated June 2, 2004 is What I've Neglected to Tell You Is. The next post, dated June 15, 2004 is He's saying I'm on a roll with all the girls I know.
