cigar-tin story #63 The minute a manager comes into my office and says the words, "Excel spreadsheet," I know I am in trouble. Psychic tears will be shed, clotted blood will not flow. There will be no happy ending. In its place will be some hoo-ha about how he or she (let's just say "she" to give the sisters a win) wants to talk about "work flow," as if work was some magical river that I only occasionally tried to cross, and her efforts were like a bridge, decorated with banners, with an ice-cream stand on the other side. Bring out the hammers. Bring out the 80K salary, and the online masters degree in project management, and the claw-fisted attempts to *manage*. Meanwhile, you've been wandering in a sort of workplace wilderness for years. No promotions or courses or professional development for you. Hell, you've even had to bring in your own office supplies. And the work you've been doing has been like this angry, retarded dog, who needs
Draw things, paint things, write things, make things.