This will require many sub-pages.
Everyone grieves differently. A timeless phrase, by now. At times, it's directed to brush past spectacular crashouts, but true nevertheless. I wholeheartedly agree with this sentiment. It speaks directly to my zealous belief in minimalistic individuality. However. When I was trimming a poster for a customer today, an often therapeutic motion that one can easily get lost in, trance-like as the blade glides and fUCKIN' CATCHES ON SOME PIECE OF SHIT PLASTIC but after that so smooth, ooh. Even a momentary flash of spite is doused by the chilling recognition of an effect. An effect that, in my line of work (and staunch disposition), I have come to recognize like an insurance adjuster does black mold. That malignant, alien facsimile of AI-generated text. Taking a step back to make sure, I realize that there are two dates above a smiling face of a late woman in this poster. Everyone grieves differently. But my ritualistic, sentiment-seeped hindbrain shivers at the idea. A picture of a person, digital or not, is a valuable thing. It captures a specific thing at a specific time, which can technically never be captured again. To feed the ghost of a person into one of those things, just to spit out what is ultimately a Xerox of an idea, is a torture I’d expect AM to stick me with. Let’s be a little less reactionary for a minute. More realistic. I’m sure they’ll have some real photographs at that woman’s service. Someone placed the order. Someone is still thinking about them. If we want to be pessimistic, the only person it really matters to is whoever made that order. I’m sure in their mind, it’s this spectacular memorial that otherwise wouldn’t be possible. Or something like that. Maybe I overthink these things. Yet, earlier that day, we made labels for a lady. Another woman beside her glanced over and complimented her design. “Ah, ChatGPT. Amazing, isn’t it?” “Oh yeah, me too!” Another woman lounging by a rental desktop, likely waiting for another miserably sluggish email to come through our end, chimed in. “It’s crazy how fast it works!” Her grin didn’t falter. “It’s just scary because you can’t tell what’s fake anymore.” I distinctly recall the slight, synchronized hiss as my supervisor and I held our breaths and busied ourselves with something. The first lady took the labels to the product I never quite identified and went her way. I don’t think we ever did get that email. It was, at least, a day rife with artifacts. I’m now on my third mini-jesus, and the proud owner of some sort of philosophical-religious diagram-type…thing. Framework? I’m honestly not sure. I’ve yet to have the time to muddle through it. It took most of my brainpower to print the goddamn thing, no less than read it. The customer had a very specific orientation in mind, which required lots of math and general logic that my then-panicking-ass was in no state to comprehend. (Note to self: Can we atrophy the adrenal glands? Research sensory deprivation tanks and accrue PTO.) ((Note to self: Absolutely not gonna afford that. Research ping-pong balls and when the house is empty.)) What especially didn’t help my on-the-spot shock was the borderline disappointment this individual had to endure while working with me. It wasn’t entirely their fault—they clearly wanted to work with my boss, who worked with them last, but she had just gotten back from break, and I wanted to prove that I was a Big Boy!! I could handle it all by myself!! I wasn’t a fuckup no more!! Twenty minutes and like eight prints in and I’m tapped out because I have to take my break before it’s too late. Mother fucker. SURE YEAH MY BOSS WAS LIKE “Hey man honestly I didn’t even fuckin’ know what I was doing I just kept trying stuff until he smiled” but I was so CERTAIN I could DO IT. This is a lesson in reasonable expectations. This is a regular flaw of mine that I have recognized, and I should really work on strengthening my evaluation skills. How do you do that. Is there books for that. I really really need to work on that actually because customers like me too much because I promise too much which I inevitably panic and ultimately complete thus slowly but surely raising the bar until the water level is comfortably cRAWLING UP MY NOSE AND KNOCKING AT MY TRACHEA. What I mean is, old people who don’t know how to use a computer rely on me as a baby fawn relies on warmth from its mother. And I keep leaning into it like a chump because I can’t say no. FUCK IS THAT IT? God dammit. It isn’t an “estimating” thing at all. I’m just a sucker who can’t fathom disappointing individuals I interact with for more than forty seconds. This used to be my whole shit back in The Gap, but ever since New Major Manager rehomed me to print, my availability in tech help has been wobbly at best. These younglings simply aren't prepared for the harsh scarcity of winter. Not that there even is a scarcity because there are PLENTY OF OTHERS WHO CAN HELP, they just INSIST ON ME BECAUSE I WAG MY LITTLE TAIL Let’s reframe this more positively. I am proud to help people. I enjoy making people happy. Tech help is a direct person-to-help pipeline. It’s, honestly, quite enabling. Regardless—I’m like a good barber. For puter. I’m not some technohackerwizard. I’d be fired from Geek Squad. The issues that come to me just aren’t especially complicated for a guy who’s been staring at a screen for 20+ years. Unfortunately, I am just exactly the guy they describe me as—someone who’s grown up with it. I get it. I do. I have to catch myself constantly, because if I say “zip file,” they’ll get agitated and start throwing sticks. A lot of user interface these days is built on design that was built on design that was built on design. If you haven’t been keeping up over the past decade or so, the visual language of computers and smartphones has really shifted. But, would it be a thought without a little souring? Maybe this, too, is a learning opportunity. Learned helplessness. A Buddy of Mine mentioned this term some time ago, and I think it grazed my soul. It didn’t hit, but it got close enough to remind you of what could’ve—could be. Might’ve? Put that one with the rest for later. Sometimes, it seems like customers just cannot be fucked to learn how to do something that feels basic. Again, I could be biased, but I’d hope a pencil is still recognizable enough as an icon to mean “write”. I will concede that not everyone has privileged access to constant technology, but everyone alive in the past 25 years has encountered a touchscreen at some point, right? Urgent Cares, museums, restaurants, the thing in your hand you paid nearly a grand for. If a thing looks like the thing you want, it’s probably the thing you need! Email! The mail icon! “I’ve never done this before.” There’s a first time for everything! Don’t just throw the phone into my hands and start looking at the candy by the register! Get over here and learn, god damn you. I guess I never really do leave tech. I just do it in a new corner while juggling the printing of a bunch of AI-generated nightmares. And waiting all day for those fuckin’ emails, man. Gotta keep pluggin' away at this site, though. Getting somewhere. An ugly, ugly somewhere, but somewhere. Slowly thawing the freezerburnt scraps of my computer science course.
STOP DOING INLINE SHIT JUST MAKE A PROPER STYLESHEET
The poster. I waddled into work, wincing as my backpack pulled at my hair, ready for what was anticipated to be an understaffed nightmare. We, in fact, had an EXTRA person. They seem nice. Another dying tech store refugee. But the poster. I always manage to float into print at the worst times. Or maybe just narratively convenient times. Someone comes in to pick up the poster. Their expression—initially soft but agreeably expectant—wilts when I pull out the rolled-up tube. “Wasn’t it supposed to be…” He says, gesturing his flat palm up and down in the air. I smack my forehead—a habit that I consistently forget is an action that produces a wretchedly loud sound—and apologize profusely for the error. I remake it from scratch, just to be safe. I see the file. I make very sure it comes out perfect, which takes far too long to begin with, as I’m buried in errors, because that fucking printer can sense karmic imbalance and acts upon it like a shark to blood. But I do it. And they watch me the whole time. I am like a Ghirardelli Chef on that fucking trimmer. I’m doing measuring tricks I’d never even thought of on the spot. It takes time, but it is good. And I needed to do it twice, as it turned out, they ordered two. The customer is grateful. We give them the rolled-up posters on the house for the trouble. And like the prodigal son, I return to tech. I do not mean to look afraid when certain people call my name. It is instinctual, and I aim to work it out somehow in some way that is possible. This couple is nothing but wonderful. They practically sparkle with that unique aura I’m always hoping to stumble across. It’s just that they come to me very regularly, and like a moron people-pleaser with hopeful but often unrealistic standards, I keep making promises that are hard to keep. Especially given how much I keep having to be in print, with or without me actually being placed there for the day. All of this compounding stress condenses into a Pavlovian wince every time I hear my name from that voice. But they are so nice to me. Sometimes they bring me little candies and we talk about stuff that isn’t computers and either or I usually get awkward and start rambling at them because I struggle to end conversations because for some reason it feels rude to stop talking to someone especially in a customer service role but luckily they’re old enough to remember that you can just stop. And go home. I like to help. I wish I could have done more for the dying lamb. It came up to the counter while I was buzzing around print, doing my trimmings in silent shame. I recognized the name on the sticker, though. People with names that are fun to say always have fucked up computers. And it’s just wonderful to have a name to groan or curse at when it inevitably freezes or drops connection. What really drove me to it, though, was the fucking dying wails it made as I approached. It all clicked together, then. This customer had a sputtering fan for a while, likely because he had it on constantly. We told him not to do that. He did. I did what I could for the poor thing, but beyond unscrewing it and blasting it with what was left of a duster can, it kept sounding like the motor was primed to snap or seize at any rotation-per-minute. I considered opening the whole fan up and peeking around, but every screw I take out is a screw I have to put back. And Mr. “Said he wasn’t gonna hit the pen this morning” got a certain ironic nickname today that would make computer surgery a certain catastrophe. I did at least learn how much fun it is to watch the actual tech guys connected to computers and fuck around with shit. Especially when they’re constantly fighting three different adware-ridden browsers from automatically opening windows. Tried doing a bunch of stuff myself just to “be able to do it just in case” (I was bored and couldn’t be bothered to go out into the aisles, wherein I could be spurred to do something). It’s knowledge that’s kinda useless outside of the work vacuum, but it makes me feel just that much more like I’m the guy that customers think I am. I used to be afraid of being a person at work. Nowadays, work is really the only time I have to be. Maybe I’m allowed to be a little. Thought a lot about lotion today. I need to be incredibly soft for very obvious reasons. It’s so important to have soft hands. Imagine you touch someone—even by accident, when you aren’t entirely sure how to hand them their change—and it is nice. As I give my nightly one-sided “You have to talk to your closing co-worker until you get to your car, otherwise you’re walking side-by-side in silence, and that’s worse than death” chat with the one coworker who I think might maybe understand why I do that, I find an advertisement. For skin-care. It’s tucked neatly in my car’s driver-side windshield, and the paper is shittily thin, and the color is faded, and I’m just insulted more than anything. I am very soft. But I do need lotion. Only at night, though, I guess. Before bed. Something I thought I’d stop doing in my teens. But, anything for the customer. Something that, as a teen, I never thought I’d say.
I (EYE), ████████ █████, WITNESS AS MY WITNESS, SOLEMNLY SWEAR TO UNFUCK THE WEBSITE A LITTLE MORE TOMORROW