Surreal # 1: Don’t ask. Just go with it.

Sometimes, while pondering the universe  or just despairing into space while waiting to get connected to the internet via my MTN/Mweb 3G/HSDPA modem, I imagine that I am in a hostile, rocky, desert-type landscape, that the sun is beating down mercilessly, that I am a hundred years old, weak from lack of food and dehydrated, and that I am obsessively hauling a decomposing human body with me to wherever I am going, which is at least a thousand kilometres further down the drag. Or more. Like, let’s say, on the road from Johannesburg to Cape Town (going via Kimberley) I have just passed Potch.

(Sometimes I file my nails.)

It is Wednesday night. I had to wait for 20 minutes for two emails. On was 11kb and one, 63kb. They were crap emails, but how could I know this until I received them, right?

I am working up enthusiasm to mount a real offensive against my service provider in order to get out of a contract that is supposed to hold until August next year. There is a new law now, saying that if you are dissatisfied with a person or company’s service, your contract cannot bind your ass to the kind of rage and frustration that I feel at least once or twice a week.

I am keeping notes, and I think I will call Mweb tomorrow just to get recorded as saying (again) that their service stinks.

But having finally managed to get connected, I had better use the opportunity to speak. To illustrate (so, very hypothetically)… it’s a little like standing in a queue so long that your problem is sorted out by the time you get to the front. For example, you might join a coda of people at the bank, waiting to see the bank manager in order to rearrange your bond repayments, because interest rates have sky-rocketed. By the time you get to the actual manager, he is happy to tell you that interest rates have, in the last six months come down, and then… well, you have nothing to say. So you make up an additional story about bank charges in general, or something.

Okay. Not very funny. On a completely serious note, I think I might have to sever my very puzzling friendship with my friend Gray. First of all, he does not care if he offends my friends, which is offensive to me. Secondly, he eats like a peasant and chooses the cheapest wine on the menu. Thirdly, he does not do much work, just enough to make sure that he can play as much golf as he likes to, and to go overseas to acquire electronics in China or Taiwan every now and then – which he turns around for enough money to keep him in golf shoes and a house (also one for his mother) and a car and so on.

Which brings me to… fourthly. Because of the absence of a daily grind in his life, he pretends not understand that those of us who live by it, are incredibly irked  by his disdain for our economic endeavours. If he fucking calls one more time and says hello by way of “and so what are you keeping yourself busy with today?” I swear I will… well I don’t know what I will do. I will probably just say that “I work, you fucking cocksucker, so I will be working today, and please don’t ever fucking phone me again.”

I have a good friend whose ex also disparaged paid labour of any kind, having invested wisely from an early age, and he was also a deeply unpleasant person. That is why she dumped him. He only ever saw life from his point of view, and this point of view demanded a profound contempt for anybody who did not agree with it. He really had to go. Money or not. So, even though I am against virtually all the principles of Protestantism (and all other organised religion) there is something to be said for the work-ethic thing. And as a person that lives by it, on the day that I win the Euro millions, I will show the necessary respect to those who did not.

And so on.

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