My name is too damn long. This is evident after having to scrawl it on credit card receipts at 1:50 in the morning.
21 letters total. 21 letters that seem as if they go on forever in a loopy, upwardly tilting way. I came to this conclusion under the guise of Graphology, while sitting with the rest of the unwashed waiting to sober up after too many fiery (yes, there was actual fire involved) shots at Sharkeez last weekend.
The thought of this as an actual profession is... mildly interesting? It prompted me to think back to when I used to work at a company called ISN – Information Systems Network, where I was trained in the covert operation of document evaluation, criminal records and questioned document authenticity verifications. The job description sounded like a secret spy mission. It wasn’t. The office was located in a very non-descript building in El Segundo, California. For some reason which I have always questioned, the entire place was filled with women. All of the employees in this entire office BUILDING, were female. Even the janitorial staff.
All women or not, I didn’t fit in. Clearly. I realized this within 2 hours of my first day of employment, though it took me 2 weeks to realize the non-existence of males bodies. The office itself was blissful. Private industry has its perks, mostly based on free stuff. We had a kitchen stocked weekly with snacks and beverages and an individually climate controlled environment. Everyone had their own security badges and keyed entry passwords. The “puffer” technology was barely emerging. Cutting edge, baby. In this case, the machines were being used at the main office entrance to check for drug residue or weaponry I assume. I just know I was violated by that doorway everyday with jetstreams of air shooting straight up my vaginal canal and out my ears.
I quickly grew to dislike my position at ISN. It was interesting, but also the closest thing to working in a sweatshop that I come in contact with. There were quotas to meet. Fancy dry-erase boards with notes all over the place. My office mate Di used to color her fingernails with the red markers and use the green markers to paint her piggy little toenails on the days she wore open-toe shoes. The office supervisor, Bettina was a bitch. She took a month vacation to have a boob job and got ungodly white veneers on her top front teeth. When she came back, she had a constant buck-toothed grin due to the fact that she could no longer pull her lips completely over and drooled uncontrollably on her perpetually hard marble nipples.
I quit that place before I was fired. Actually, I quit minutes before I was let go, but hey, whoever says it first wins, right? The experience I gained was pretty cool. I absorbed their tools and have been able to use my skills to pay the bills on quite a few jobs after that fiasco. How very Law and Order-ish of me.
Evaluate your own signature and see what it says about you.
And never get a mouthful of toothy veneers. You’ll never be able to say “M” words properly again.
The thought of this as an actual profession is... mildly interesting? It prompted me to think back to when I used to work at a company called ISN – Information Systems Network, where I was trained in the covert operation of document evaluation, criminal records and questioned document authenticity verifications. The job description sounded like a secret spy mission. It wasn’t. The office was located in a very non-descript building in El Segundo, California. For some reason which I have always questioned, the entire place was filled with women. All of the employees in this entire office BUILDING, were female. Even the janitorial staff.
All women or not, I didn’t fit in. Clearly. I realized this within 2 hours of my first day of employment, though it took me 2 weeks to realize the non-existence of males bodies. The office itself was blissful. Private industry has its perks, mostly based on free stuff. We had a kitchen stocked weekly with snacks and beverages and an individually climate controlled environment. Everyone had their own security badges and keyed entry passwords. The “puffer” technology was barely emerging. Cutting edge, baby. In this case, the machines were being used at the main office entrance to check for drug residue or weaponry I assume. I just know I was violated by that doorway everyday with jetstreams of air shooting straight up my vaginal canal and out my ears.
I quickly grew to dislike my position at ISN. It was interesting, but also the closest thing to working in a sweatshop that I come in contact with. There were quotas to meet. Fancy dry-erase boards with notes all over the place. My office mate Di used to color her fingernails with the red markers and use the green markers to paint her piggy little toenails on the days she wore open-toe shoes. The office supervisor, Bettina was a bitch. She took a month vacation to have a boob job and got ungodly white veneers on her top front teeth. When she came back, she had a constant buck-toothed grin due to the fact that she could no longer pull her lips completely over and drooled uncontrollably on her perpetually hard marble nipples.
I quit that place before I was fired. Actually, I quit minutes before I was let go, but hey, whoever says it first wins, right? The experience I gained was pretty cool. I absorbed their tools and have been able to use my skills to pay the bills on quite a few jobs after that fiasco. How very Law and Order-ish of me.
Evaluate your own signature and see what it says about you.
And never get a mouthful of toothy veneers. You’ll never be able to say “M” words properly again.
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