But I’ve been on strike since Friday which means the work computer stays at work. I assure you, the profound entry on the work computer contains the outline for the grand scheme that will save the world from itself. So, yeah, you’ll probably never see it.

Instead I’ll expound on the completely self-absorbed, not even a little bit enlightening topic of what it means when Anaea goes on strike. It does not, as you might suspect, mean that I stop working. It just means I develop a deep, pervading denial about the fact that I’m doing work. This, understandably, has a dramatic negative impact on my productivity, but I still get stuff done.

When it comes to work I’m a deeply divided person. I’m intensely lazy, hate having to do anything, a lot, have short patience for tediousness and stupidity, and I’m not so good at the diurnal schedule thing. At the same time I get a high off being super-busy, off being kick-ass at what I’m doing, and for some unknown reason cling to the thought that if I just work a little bit harder now then all the work will be done and I can stop. The big version of that plan involves amassing a fortune while I’ve still got something resembling youthful enthusiasm then beating Jesus’s record for retirement. Upon retirement I will settle down in an urban townhouse with a backyard big enough for breeding parrots and stoning obnoxious children. This all boils down to making me an intensely lazy workaholic.

“How does that work?” somebody once asked me when I tried explaining this to them.
“I work a lot, and then I get bitter and stop for a while. Then I work a lot more.”

It goes something like this.

The crazy 90%* of Anaea’s Brain: Slave, slave, grindstone, frantic rush, deadline, hurry, wantraisebignowplease, youpeoplearestupidandpissmeoffsoI’lldoyourjobforyouinmysparetimetomakeyoulookbad, slave, slave.
The other 10%: For the love of all that is sacred and gross, what are you doing?
90: I’m getting stuff done, and justifying this massive ego I’ve got going over here.
10: Oh no you don’t. You’ll have to ascend to divinity to pull that off, and that requires way too much work.
90: No it won’t. I’ll create a system of rules that’ll allow the universe to run itself. And then, just for kicks, I won’t tell anybody what they are and force them deduce it through observation and experimentation. And maybe math. Math is cool.
10: Says the nutter who can’t leave the pears alone to poach on their own.
90: That was moral support and you know it!
10: Nope, we’ve had it. We’re going home and watching something amusing, with lots of attractive men. Oh, I know, Torchwood.
90: But Torchwood sucks**. No Time Lords, idiotic characters, and lots of pointless camp.
10: You will spend the next four hours drooling over John Barrowman. Do not argue. And if I let you go to work, you will pretend you’re not there the whole time. Hide in your office, work slowly, play lots of Solitaire. Every time you start to feel rushed or stressed, or your customer does something stupid, go buy ice cream.
90: I’ll be in a coma by 2.
10: Don’t answer your phone or check your email. Then you won’t know better.
90: You know, if I pull a couple long days this week I can finish up the fallout from the disaster formerly known as last week and then really slack off next week.
10: (Takes brain, sends it through meat grinder, burns remains. Hums while strolling away victoriously.)
90: OMG, Need. Jack Harkness. Now.

So, yeah, you’re never going to know just what the fatal flaw of the public education system is or how to fix it. Nyah, nyah.

*Yes, only 90%. Quiet, you!
**What I’ve seen of season 2 is a massive improvement over season 1. Martha makes Torchwood tolerable.

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