So apparently, a joint investigation between the U.S. Government and Denmark has unveiled a ring of child pornographers. First off, bravo!, I say. Second, I would like to mention how pleased I am that this was named "Operation Hamlet." A little smart, a little funny, a little smart-ass. A hell of a lot better than "Operation Enduring Freedom" or whatever these things are being called nowadays. Something rotten, indeed.
Also. Why, O Why am I constantly plagued with the worst work computers (read: Dell) that ever were? It seems that mine cannot handle a CD being inserted at the same time I open an email. It completely freaked out with funny windows opening where windows should not be, a loud, repeating beepitybeepitybeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee, and if I had not unplugged it, it probably would have exploded, or at least put its debilitating Spark-Fountains (tm) into action.
And I am also very tired of this computer telling me what I want. If I WANT a bulleted list, I will fucking tell it. And if I tell it enough times that I do not, in fact, want a bulleted list, why does it refuse to remember this the next time I type "1.", and make another damned bulleted list I have to remove?
Today is far too delectable to waste sitting inside. I keep trying to come up with excuses to wander outwards, but every time I am about to go out (for a smoke break, naturally -- the easiest of all possible excuses to indulge) someone pops up to ask me a question about work-related things. It is a little difficult to get used to the idea that I am someone people come to for answers now -- I have been a fill-in-the-gaps freelancer for so long, I forget that I can make a few decisions about what this product is supposed to look like on my own. I have been here long enough (almost a full month now, holy cats) that I can almost tell them that the entire website is incredibly stinky and needs a great big do-over. Oh, my joy on the day I get to redesign this thing will be boundless.
My poor brain is flitting all over the place -- I type "on my own" up there and immediately hear poor Eponine serenading me from within the confines of my skull.
Tomorrow, by the by, promises to be a red letter day. The illustrious Finn makes his debut appearance as a resident of this fair city. I will be picking him up from the train station, and we are almost certainly going to make some kind of romantic-reunion-running-down-the-concourse-black-and-white-film-in-the-rain kind of scene. Just because we can. Plus, I really want to hear the staid midwesterners with whom Finn has been sharing an overnight train make some comment about us kissin' queers. I dare them to, in fact.
It wasn't until that last sentence that I realized how much I'm spoiling for a good (verbal) fight with a stranger. Growwwr.
Upon further reflection, I think that if I were a Danish operations-namer, I might name them all Operation Hamlet.