izabel

On the plane, a woman and man sitting infront of me.

He: 30s, tan, wearing a surfing company t-shirt (tribal font theme), softing ex-jock, confident but shy.

She: tall, skinny,peroxide blond, face devastated by sun, brain starved by neglect and degraded to running on sheer savvy and know-how. Before I could buckle my seatbelt, I found out that:

1. She is a rep at a cosmetics company.
2. She is looking for a career change.
3. She just left her fiance last week, got in a car, and crossed the continent in one week.

After some over-casual slapstick and small-talk in the style of a TV sticom, she turns to the guy and gets to her point.

So what do you do?

Im a program developper. Spam filters.

Wow. So did you develop the spam filter?

YEah.

You invented it?

Uh huh.

So this is your company, then.

Yup.

I see the brittle ends of her hair start to rise and buzz with electricity.

Wow. So you must be like a mutli-multi-multi millionaire. zap, bbuzz, zap.


And for the rest of an hour the woman proceeds to expound on the negative nature of spam, how companies must retain their integrity to be trully successful (which they can do by being honest and not calling people at their homes and spamming them on the phone), and how much spam is really and trully a problem, and how much she hates it, and how she wants to change her career so if he needs a rep at his company, shed love to work with him. And how bad spam is. She repeats herself so often and so methodically that it really begins to dawn on me: cocaine habit. Or at least a neural record skip.

And finally it occurs to me. She is human spam. Wheres your filter now, rich boy? HAHAHAHAAHAHAAA.

Jet Blue justice.