It's been 12 years since my last confession. I should really say it's been 12 years since I last wrote anything resembling a diary. Back then it was the trend to write (imagine actually writing on a keyboard, talk about ancient!) on a confessional diary as a form of self-therapy. Of course the trend lasted all of 4 months, a long time for a trend nowadays.
Well, here I am again, 12 years wiser (ha ha).
I am Michael. Michael Williams, born 17th April 1998 the former Los Angles before the big one. Is it coincidence that I'm writing this one day before my birthday? Probably not but then again why overanalyse everything.
Well what a great start, I've managed to introduce me to myself, read what you will into that.
Whoa! What a party, it's not everyday that you turn thirty and all the guys turned out. The count peaked at 2687 hooked into my party room I'd rented from the local service provider. I've been partying for 18 solid hours, my body is a wreck now. Even with the massage units built into the cyber chair 18 hours solid online is not to be recommended.
After I showered I had this curious feeling that I was being watched. I looked out of the window but everything seemed normal. Well, as normal as it gets here. Probably a residual effect of being online so long.
Now it's time to sleep.
Confession number 1. I've been having these really dirty thoughts about one of the new operators at work. She's probably just turned 20. How to describe her? Well, take all the stereotypical blond babes you see in the ads but never in real life, then make her, oh, about 5 inches too short and add a little bit too much "puppy fat" around the mid-section and you're just about there. Her nose turns up just a little at the end, verging on the snotty look but, luckily, being more on the cute side.
I actually talked to her today:
"Hi!"
"Um, oh, hi."
Interaction or what! She even looked up from her monitor and everything.
NEVER, EVER stay online for too long. That irritating itch has now developed into a full blown rash. It's got me looking over my shoulder every five minutes.
Lunch today:
McSoya with double decafe Cola.
I really need to start thinking about stuff like that, I'm not getting any younger. When I look down at my feet it looks like gravity is winning the war against my flabby stomach.
Conversation number two:
"Erm, hi, my name's Michael, I work over in net security."
"Oh hi, I'm rather new here. Julie's the name."
Beep,
beep, beep...
It's official, I HATE my pager. The best real world conversation with a girl for the past year (since Sandra, there I can even write her name now, definitely in the past) and my fucking, arsehole of pager goes off. And who is it? Non other than the plebs of plebs. Mr. Oh No I've Got A Problem Let Get Good Ol' Michael To Fix It. I swear I've never seen him do a day's decent work but still he rides the wave of career promotions like a professional.
Tomorrow I'm going to ask Julie (nice name) to lunch.
The latest craze is Peeping. Peeping involves buying the latest in camera wizardry, a small flesh coloured device that you tape to the side of your head and then record other people. It's all the craze and there's a huge debate on the net about the morality of it all. Of course it's not as though you can't tell who's doing it. Even if the max range is 50m you still have to be looking at the person. The point? Showing all the juicy bits to other peepers of course. Every corner I turn there's a friggin peeper looking at me, maybe that was the itch I've been feeling.
I've just come offline now and I've been doing a little online peeping of my own. Julie Sanders (that's a little too close to Sandra for my liking), born 5th August 2009. A sweet nineteen. I haven't got a hope in hell.
Ordered the latest "your very own washboard stomach in 21 days" book from Amazon.
I hate hackers. Not for any moralistic reason of course but when a group of them decide it's time to break into the companies servers it means a lot of late nights and a lot of online time combating them. Nearly a week to track them down and get the NetFeds onto them.
Sleep.
There's an old band I listen too now and then, Depeche Mode. I'm a bit into all the old classics (I even have a few original CD's, cool eh?). Anyway there's one song that I think applies to Julie, "I feel you". Everytime I walk past her cubicle the song just blast into my head and I forget everything else around me, sort of like tunnel vision.
Back to work tomorrow. It feels like I haven't eaten anything for the past week or so, I'm that hungry. Even the "you'll never be hungry again with dieto, the pill that works" don't work!
I swear, I'm being watched. It's not just the peepers now. I'm sure I saw a long camera lens pointed into my bedroom window today. I caught it out the corner of my eye but when I looked again, nada, zip, zipo. I'm going to use some of my personal online time at work tomorrow and see if I can find anything.
Oh shit. She agreed. Not just lunch but dinner! Of course I'll blow it, like the total moron that I am I asked her here for dinner! Like I can cook or anything. Two days, the books have been downloaded, the concentration pills taken and the first disaster cooked. An expensive junk of soya-beef burnt to a crisp, a sauce so full of lumps it could have filled all the potholes in the road.
Aaarggh!!!
Bliss, happiness, joy. All of them within my grasp. We ate (two days training and it wasn't that bad), talked (she's also into classic music) and I walked her to the subway.
THE KISS...was bliss. Nothing over the top but a polite, there may be more later, kind of kiss. We agreed to eat at her place on friday evening.
Confession number two. Those dreams are getting pretty raunchy now. Thank christ I don't have a dream recorder, the censors would be down on me like a ton of bricks.
It's real. It's fucking real. I nearly caught a guy today with the biggest camera you've every seen. As I came out of the office I saw him around the corner with a huge camera lens pointed towards me. Shit, I chased him, ME, chasing some guy with a camera. I think that Julie must have raised my bravado level a little too much.
But wait, he pulled a fucking taser gun on me! Thus the embarrassing healing patch on my head from the splendiferous leap into the bushes. Police comment:
"I'm sorry sir, without a full description and preferably an ID number there's not a lot we can do."
A fucking ID number, "Excuse me, Mr. Bad Guy with the large weapon pointed at me, but could I bother you for your ID number?", hello?
Anyway, Julie is staying the night, I think she feels sorry for me.
The last month has been unbelievable. We're getting an apartment together!
Now I'm hearing things!
I was walking down the corridor to Julie for a spot of lunch when over the tanoy I hear:
"Michael, wake up! This is not real"
I went straight back to my office and jacked in a psycho-eval progam. A clean bill of health. Julie thinks I'm just over worked. Must be, those attacks on the company just keep on coming and coming. It's almost getting personal. It seems that every attack now comes designed for my expertise.
I love Ju...
"Michael, can you hear me?"
Blackness.
"Micheal, it's Sandra, wake up now, please honey."
"Sandra, wha, what are you doing here? You moved to Paris."
"No, here the Doctor will explain it."
"Hi
Michael, just take it easy. The drugs we gave you are pretty strong."
"What drugs? What the hell is going on here? Why can't I see anything? Where's Julie?"
"Julie is a figment of your imagination Michael. You've been subjected to a mind hack."
"No way. This is the mind hack you bastard. Activate Defensive Programs"
"Michael, no, please the kids miss you, Michael!"
"I'm sorry Mrs. Williams there's nothing we can do, he's ...
I love Julie.