09:38. In office. Hopefully for one of the last times.
11:53. May head out soon, a lead fell into my lap, one from Windsor. Just got off phone with MPOC and she was nice, kind, patient, excited to see the numbers I communicate. If only they could all be like that.
Might drive to Petaluma, have lunch, write for a bit or prospect. Not sure. Easing more into the day with a pronounced and useful ease…. Coffee with Nurse this morning, how quickly the day passed yesterday and the one before. Time not waiting for me, and I ought not for it.
This office, a bland flavorless bowl of inmate meal. On second banana. No word from that IoT company and I really don’t fucking care. What about me hiring ME??
30 seconds or so before noon, and needing a drive somewhere. Just to get in the car, listen to something chill, and be with my thoughts like this morning and every drive over here. Time for SELF… there doesn’t need to be some even or occasion or other characters. The possibilities I mole and realize with imagist inner-narrative is more than enough.
Doubting and anxious, me now. And with no precursor current. It just hit me. I blame the office, but really I should believe in the office and the stories here. Sales people hungry and scraping, hunting and grinding like desperate dingos. I need to write about this life, as I try to escape it.
SALES…
Why. Why did I do this to myself when I noticed my character and mind changing shape away from what I was in 2021 when I made President’s Club at the first telecom.
I’ve found an idea, I think. The Anti-Sales Voice. More genuine, or connective. Human. No funnel obsession or forecast-addicted acts and pats.
I have definitely found a prompt, at the very least. What if this office and its many screens could talk.. what would they want to write for me?