May 05, 2004

The Indy Ball

What to make of such a title? Vaguely pornographic, yet senseless --- a shameless attempt to drag in the absurdist pervert demographic? Nay, my friends, instead an oblique reference to a popular 80s film, which is what the knowing ones call chum to comic book guys.

Dropping the mask of obfuscation --- it's tough, I work at a law firm, you've no idea how many descriptions of my billable hours I've obfuscated --- I reveal that the Indy Ball to which I refer is the giant freaking boulder that threatens to turn Indiana Jones into so much grout between the Ancient Incan Temple floor tiles. Or, in this case, a metaphor for the acceleration of my departure date multiplied by the mass of tasks I've yet to do, bearing down with increasing velocity on my nimbly skipping self. I have certain pleasurable family obligations over the next month or so --- my younger sister and brother are graduating from high school and college respectively, and there will be a massive joint party to celebrate same for the extended clan --- which will be occupying three of my weekends. My roommates, partly prodded by my own departure and partly by the fact that our landlord sold our building and the new owner told us he'd be bouncing our asses as soon as was convenient, will be moving end of their month to an enviable situated and spacious apartment I helped them pick out. So that's another weekend gone to packing and hauling and swearing and pizza. Combine these facts with my intent to spend a couple weeks visiting family between quitting my job and departing, and one can see that very little time remains to work toward the five steps I've laid out. Pulling together a collection of documents that will convince perfect strangers of your respectability, law-abidingness, inborn perk, and willingness to gleefully submit to any corporate overlord who'll take you is no joking matter. The disposition of my stuff remains a perplexing problem, my knowledge of Dublin neighborhoods remains scant, and as my handled organizer thingies keeps telling me, only 39 days remain between me and the grand finale. It's no wonder I feel as if I'm running full tilt, clamping my fedora down with one hand.

Posted by Diablevert at May 5, 2004 04:45 PM | TrackBack

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