I'm having problems finding a suitable work environment for my creative writing pursuits.
I need the company of my flatmate, but I also need privacy for my writing.
It's cold now, so the balcony isn't welcoming.
The wiring to my bedroom lights has gone, and writing in the dark brings an un-looked for Gothic quality to my work.
The bathrooms vibe is too hard, and my butt gets cold on the toilet.
The kitchen is the center of food and hot drink preparation, so there are always interruptions.
The laundry though warm and private, is the size of an old fashion phone booth, and it could use a few windows to soften its cell like qualities.
Maybe I could build a shed and attach it to the side of my apartment building?
I could make it out of tin so that it drums pleasantly in the rain.
I wonder how the body-corp would feel about a shed, hanging off a tenth floor balcony?
The body-corp seems to be made up of old men who lack imagination. Especially when it comes to architecture.
Somebody suggested writing at work, as I don't seem to do any actual work for the corporation, while I'm at the office. It's a fine idea, but just walking through those doors sucks all the drive out of me and consumes what little creative energy I might have.
Besides, I might write something pornographic, and some systems engineer would find it on the server, and post it on the web, and turn it into email packing with a distribution that would rival a tom Clancy novel.
Before too long, friends would unknowingly be emailing it back to me cause they received it from a mate in Wales, or wherever.
My damp prose would work it way into bathrooms and under doonas all over the planet.
I need the company of my flatmate, but I also need privacy for my writing.
It's cold now, so the balcony isn't welcoming.
The wiring to my bedroom lights has gone, and writing in the dark brings an un-looked for Gothic quality to my work.
The bathrooms vibe is too hard, and my butt gets cold on the toilet.
The kitchen is the center of food and hot drink preparation, so there are always interruptions.
The laundry though warm and private, is the size of an old fashion phone booth, and it could use a few windows to soften its cell like qualities.
Maybe I could build a shed and attach it to the side of my apartment building?
I could make it out of tin so that it drums pleasantly in the rain.
I wonder how the body-corp would feel about a shed, hanging off a tenth floor balcony?
The body-corp seems to be made up of old men who lack imagination. Especially when it comes to architecture.
Somebody suggested writing at work, as I don't seem to do any actual work for the corporation, while I'm at the office. It's a fine idea, but just walking through those doors sucks all the drive out of me and consumes what little creative energy I might have.
Besides, I might write something pornographic, and some systems engineer would find it on the server, and post it on the web, and turn it into email packing with a distribution that would rival a tom Clancy novel.
Before too long, friends would unknowingly be emailing it back to me cause they received it from a mate in Wales, or wherever.
My damp prose would work it way into bathrooms and under doonas all over the planet.
She wears a suit to work, and the trend these days is for pants to hang from the hips.
The hazard in this is that when she sits down, a decent wedge of cleavage is exposed.
One time she was at a corporate lunch and she nabbed a colleague, who was leaning back in his chair, and targeting her gap with peanuts.
She got home that night and found that he had been a lot more successful then she had realised, when she pulled off her slacks and a shower of nuts bounced across the floor.
Sometimes I catch a bus to work. The bus stop is on a road, outside a hospital, on a hill. 
I was standing at the stop, waiting, looking at things, checking messages on the phone, and looking at other things, when I heard a car blasting away with its horn.
I looked to see what was causing this driver so much grief, that he had to communicate his feelings with a prolonged horn serenade.
Someone was stuck in the middle of the lane. It was a guy in a stalled electric wheelchair.
I stood there stunned for a sec. I couldn't believe that this driver was happy to sit in their car and vent, whilst someone in a wheelchair wiggled around, flicked a finger at the car, and desperately tried to coax movement out of his chair!
I jogged across and pushed the guy up to his destination. The hospital entrance!
When I told people this story to people at work, someone remarked that ‘if one is going to the hospital the next day, one might make sure ones chair is fully charged.’
While I agree with the sentiment, I reckon a little slack could have been cut.