Quolo got excited today, though he said he's not sure why. All the other people (all 3) in the corporate startup were excited because they reached a milestone, so along with the herd, quolo got excited, too.
Quolo wonders about this idea of milestones. It's just a construct - something people made up to give meaning to something that, otherwise, would probably just be chalked up to shit that happens. So they reached a milestone! They sent a box of papers to some suits! Is this really in the realm of significant milestones as, say, your first 69 or getting your braces taken off? Now that's a fucking milestone, you can eat pussy without worker's comp, that's a fucking development. I think that's why the man is sad. Nothing means anything anymore. Nobody was up all night drinking cranberry juice and going through a crate of sponges, worried about getting knocked up, because they reached a milestone. Nobody ever loaded up a 12-gauge and blew holes through the walls of the post office because they sent a box of papers from A to B.
The thing about quolo is, the thing he's really scared of, is that he doesn't mind so much anymore. When he checked out of grad school and into the temp world, every day in the man's office was an offense against nature. Quolo took an undergrad course in Biological Anthropology that had him running around a natural enclosure, doing a regular Diane Fossey with two groups of Sanford's lemurs...he knows how wild animals spend their days, and it ain't two to a cube wrestling with headers and footers. This was an offense against existence. Panic attacks, fits of anger and frustration, and constant demands for increased pay (always received), anything to get out out out out out.
But now? Quolo is docile? You can't say domesticated, there's nothing domestic about the environment, but institutionalized like Andy Dufresne almost was? Maybe even worse, maybe neutered. Quolo at a bar or quolo in the theatre can try to fuck a woman, a man, a couch, a bowl of cereal, quolo at dayjob is in a 4'x6' cell with walls of impropriety. Resistance is futile.
And, lie as he wants to, sometimes he's truly happy there.
Quolo wonders about this idea of milestones. It's just a construct - something people made up to give meaning to something that, otherwise, would probably just be chalked up to shit that happens. So they reached a milestone! They sent a box of papers to some suits! Is this really in the realm of significant milestones as, say, your first 69 or getting your braces taken off? Now that's a fucking milestone, you can eat pussy without worker's comp, that's a fucking development. I think that's why the man is sad. Nothing means anything anymore. Nobody was up all night drinking cranberry juice and going through a crate of sponges, worried about getting knocked up, because they reached a milestone. Nobody ever loaded up a 12-gauge and blew holes through the walls of the post office because they sent a box of papers from A to B.
The thing about quolo is, the thing he's really scared of, is that he doesn't mind so much anymore. When he checked out of grad school and into the temp world, every day in the man's office was an offense against nature. Quolo took an undergrad course in Biological Anthropology that had him running around a natural enclosure, doing a regular Diane Fossey with two groups of Sanford's lemurs...he knows how wild animals spend their days, and it ain't two to a cube wrestling with headers and footers. This was an offense against existence. Panic attacks, fits of anger and frustration, and constant demands for increased pay (always received), anything to get out out out out out.
But now? Quolo is docile? You can't say domesticated, there's nothing domestic about the environment, but institutionalized like Andy Dufresne almost was? Maybe even worse, maybe neutered. Quolo at a bar or quolo in the theatre can try to fuck a woman, a man, a couch, a bowl of cereal, quolo at dayjob is in a 4'x6' cell with walls of impropriety. Resistance is futile.
And, lie as he wants to, sometimes he's truly happy there.