It’s almost 9PM again, and I already have that feeling that my day is almost over, without me able to account for anything worthwhile done. Hey, that last sentence doesn’t read like a sentence at all, and I’m almost positive it’s not proper grammar. See, that’s part of my problem:
All day I sit in front of the computer, translating one poorly written document into another language, in the course of which I’m trying to iron out the creases of what the original author thinks to be German. I smoke too much, I eat too much and today for example, I was sweating too much. See, air conditioning doesn’t work in that factory. And yes, I’m sitting next to a machine while translating, so I am indeed right inside the factory. No office with plush chairs, fat carpets and humming air-conditioning. It’s the sound of bolts, screws, rivets, sensors, actuators and thousands of other little pieces feverishly working together in their quest to create a blood clot inside my head the size of my fist. But I’m digressing.
I just wanted to mention that I don’t like working fixed hours. Especially if they are fixed to a time at which I’d usually not wake up, even if a jet had just crashed throught the roof. Thus, I hereby propose the one-hour-workday. Choose your hour, come in, work, leave happy. A fifteen-minute trip to the vending machine is of course included.
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