Ultron: What is this?
This feels weird. This feels wrong.
I don't get it. Give me a second.
Ultron is such a relatable character. Every morning when the
alarm drags my consciousness back into a pitch black room I know exactly how he
felt in his first moments. Every morning I lay there for a while debating
whether or not I really need to go to work. Wouldn’t it be easier just to
destroy humanity instead?
Ultron - living the dream.
Eventually the rational and irrational parts of my brain come to
an amicable compromise: Pokemon Go.
25 - 50 Pokemon later I somehow arrive at work and find myself
relating to a completely different character: Maui from Moana.
Maui: Without my hook, I am nothing.
Moana: That's not true.
Maui: [angrily shouts] Without my hook, I am nothing!
Just replace “hook” with “morning coffee”. Damn, that’s the good
stuff.
“It’s Dave time! Cheehoo!!!!”
My manager takes me to one side at this point and reminds me
this is my last warning, I have to stop screaming cheehoo every time I drink my
coffee. Spoilsport.
I really can’t complain about my job. That’s explicitly stated
in my contract. But genuinely I have very little to complain about. Sure,
sometimes I fantasise about doing something else, something “meaningful”. But
then I remember we live in a world where salary is indirectly proportional to
“meaningfulness” and I’m just not that nice a guy. And so I spend most of my
day playing with Excel and sending emails about it.
Some time after sunset my workday comes to an end. 25 - 50
Pokemon later I arrive back home. I’m greeted at the door by the joyful calls
of my little demi-human wanting to be picked up and cuddled. My girls sometimes
greet me too, but they’ve mostly grown out of it.
Jean never fails to impress me by how well she’s managed to keep
both children alive, whilst simultaneously managing 101 other little things.
Not surprisingly she’s typically exhausted by the time I get home, so I wolf
down my dinner without bothering to chew and check in for my Daddy shift.
Daddy is not as good as Mummy. Little people want Mummy. I spend
most of my time just trying to drag them away from Mummy so she can have a
second to breathe. I typically fail.
As anyone with children knows, the day ends with a fun little
game of “Go To Bed!” After several hours of sulking and tears, exhaustion
finally wins out as me and Jean collapse into bed and Charlotte and Matthew get
the house to themselves.
A couple of seconds later a weird noise drags my consciousness
back into a pitch black room.
What is this?
This feels weird. This feels wrong.
I don't get it. Give me a second.
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