Ftrain, by Paul Ford

From the doctor's I arrived at work. There things are challenging; my job, nominally editorial and creative in nature, often--more often, really--involves picking apart the complicated and thorny aspects of computer code created by an enormous, indifferent company in Iowa that manages subscriptions. Their practices are strange, their data compressed into obscure formats that have not been relevant since the mid-1980s. Once when we asked them to send us a copy of a file they sent us a spool of inch-wide tape. To most people technology is a sort of fairy-poison and I do a sort of dull, despisable magic with it. This, however, is the most important thing I can do, I'm told, and while I am willing I am tired, and have trouble mustering.

So upon arrival, facing a day of that, I sat upon my fatty chair and checked email, which simply brought bad news-- notice that a long-standing problem project, a contracted screenplay that never gets done, and that brings me daily shame for its not-doneness, was either in its death throes or required a new effort from me. Nothing I do seems to help; it always comes back to me with a "not like this" stamped upon it. It's been years, and I've given up without wanting to. I will have to give back the advance. Which is okay; it was maybe $2,000.

It's all failure today--possible medical failure, failure to manage my life, failure to finish the screenplay, failure to write another book, failure to be scientifically proficient with technology. What I think I can do is, I can go through the motions. I can fake it. But much more than that is expected. I could fix this problem with a dinner of cheese and crackers, a fried apple pie, a bottle of wine, and a pack of cigarettes. I could repair myself but I've lost my tools. I'll return now to parsing data from Iowa.

Lunch was a minor steam table disaster, although the portions were smaller than in history. They weighed it on the table--not quite a pound. But then again I get to subtract two ounces of bone.