Erdos Had The Number First

I am a late twenties, Tech, Middle Manager. While I may, to some, be more than my job I am my job too. My job is hard.
Everybody says that, though, and I tend to believe most people when they say it. I believe it because they do, and when
you’re talking feelings its what they believe that is important (at least when your talking about their feelings).

I’m waiting for this to get easier, but I don’t know it’s going to. Sure, there are good days and bad days. And the good days do outnumber the bad. Writing about good days is quite a bit less interesting than writing about bad days, mostly because I don’t feel like writing then (that’s why I’m blogging, after all, to get back into the habit of every day writing).

One of the main problems that I have as a manager is that some days it’s much harder for me to be nice to people I think are being ridiculous. This is a big problem, since I am not all that good at making those distinctions. You can probably already see why this might be a problem.

You, gentle reader, can rest assured that I am trying to be a better communicator. It’s the 21st century, I’m a 21st century guy, but sometimes.

Sometimes I want to be a 17th Century guy. A romantisized 17th Century guy in a romantisized 17th Century world where
disputes are settled by sabres and I don’t have to suffer the tyranny of fools. I know I could be the Prince and in that fictional 17th Century world I would not feel guilty about it.

Because it’s easy to sit here and think about how free they were and to foget that they strove to have a fraction what I do today.

I’ll just end up quoting from Suzanne Vega:

Last year’s troubles are so old fashioned
the robber on the highway the pirate on the seas
maybe it’s the clothing that’s so entertaining
the earrings and swashbuckling blouses that please

here we have heroes of times that have passed now
but nobody these days has that kind of chin
over there the petticoats of ladies of virtue
you can hardly tell them from the petticoats of sin

look at all the waifs of Dickensian England
why is it their suffering is more picturesque?
must be cause their rags are so very Victorian
the ones here at home just don’t give it their best

last years troubles they shine up so pretty
they gleam with a luster they don’t have today
here it’s just dirty and violent and troubling

but trouble is still trouble and evil still evil
sometimes we wonder; is there more now, or less?
if we had a tool or could tally the handfuls
measure for measure it’s the same would be my guess