Be Excellent To Each Other

This transmission is confidential and intended solely for the person or organization to which it is addressed. It may contain privileged and confidential information. This transmission may make mention of the affair Steven C. Hill, director of sales, is having most nights and especially when business travel occurs. This transmission may also lament the feeling of dying that pervades this small and sensibly decorated workspace, while days tick by on computer calendars and the sun only briefly and barely brushes the edges of the windows in the conference room. This transmission may go on to say that, for the last year, this job hasn't felt right: cheerful on the surface, but faceless and cold. Our bosses are Germanic almost, a sadly administrative and glum gaggle of malcontents. This transmission aches to be substantial. To be the work of art the sender knows is inside him or her. Alas, it is a transmission of information so benign that enough of it stacked up could crush any gift of talent or hope. There is, my friend, a bitter little catch to the comfort we've achieved by chaining ourselves to these desks, by tying our wallets to this slow drip feed. If you are not the intended recipient, you should not copy, distribute, or take any action. That said, keep in mind that there are no coincidences; you have received this, so let's just take it from there. Freud would argue you're absolutely my intended recipient, right? The long-dead coked-up thinker stuck on Mom would say that no matter how unlikely it was that you received this e-mail and read this signature, it was, in fact, no accident. This is not where I thought I'd be at this age, in this job, in this place. My manager is a walking dead man. We're all dying here. This is not what we started out dreaming of. And, outside, the day doesn't stop its inevitable fade to consider our decision to leave or stay. Parents miles from here don't stand still like this place; they continue to age. Drunk on the pleasant hum of routine, I've stayed too long. I always stay too long in things: relationships, jobs. I am short of daring. Steve's affair, which I mentioned earlier, is at least daring, though he clearly remains unhappy. It's sad to see him take care to cover his tracks, thinking he's fooling everyone, when, in reality, he's only fooling himself.

I sit here hidden away knowing that sex won't fix me. Drinks won't do a thing. I'm haunted by this idea that one day even the daydreams that get me out of here will stop working. I need catalysts: scars and failing, trying and falling, living and risking, making the wrong move for love, starting down a long road actually headed toward something, facing the blank page, noticing some kind of detail besides changes in my skin and face. I need to get going, to admit life's urgency. We all do here. We never talk about it, and this transmission is confidential. And if you believe you received this transmission in error, please notify the sender.