Oh, and I bailed on Nanowrimo on Day 1

I can't be a Data Capturer, but neither can I do this

Again I wonder: Is publishing really the right place for a bibliophile to be? There are all these stories out there about people in corporate jobs who long to do something more meaningful and other stories about people who feel grateful to be doing something they love. But they mean something they love, on their terms. And those of you in the land of corporate greed, consider how you would feel if you had to bring something you love as you might love a child into that environment. Would your life be more meaningful? Or would the thing you love have less meaning? And what if you were surrounded by people whose only real qualification for the job that they are doing is that they like to read or that they studied literature. Ah, literature. You might appreciate beautiful gardens, but that doesn't mean you can plant and sustain one yourself. You might appreciate great photography, but can you really be Pieter Hugo?

I can't be a Data Capturer because it wouldn't take long before I'd wonder off from data-caturing land and find something more stimulating to do. So what's the problem with the job I have? Apart from the fact that I feel like a vet having to cut up the carcass of her favourite pony for dog food: I have patience, but not enough of it to outlast the type of incompetence of the type of person who would demand human sacrifices and pyramid-esque monuments if they had been born with that type of authority. Except that this person would demand that the pyramid be built upside down and the sacrifices take place in its shadow and suspended two metres from the ground without support because it meets some obscure sense of aesthetic. Next she'll be asking me to print on blotting paper, or perhaps buy an ancient press from a museum and typeset the pages myself, or delete every punctuation mark and every serif because it ruins the zen of the page.