There has been an Orwellian, sci-fi feeling to my life over the past, oh, four years or so, but especially the past month.
With a schedule of projects that demand constant stewardship, my already long work-days have now morphed into one endless workday, punctuated by brief bouts of sleep, as in, three to four hour stretches of shut-eye a night, hasty check-ins with my family, a breathless race to the gym every couple of days or so, a social event tucked into the mix, sporadic check-in with blogs and newsites and then, the inevitable return to the computer.
It is 2:06 a.m. and this is my default mode, hunched over the laptop, lights out around me, focused entirely and solely on my computer screen.
Last year, in an effort to convey his admiration for me and my relentless work style, a client called me a Fembot.
This year, I think I have morphed beyond the robotic.
I am as tied to my laptop as a newborn is to her mother's breast.
Not out of a sense of addiction, but sheer necessity.
And I am fully aware of how insane this whole thing is.
With a schedule of projects that demand constant stewardship, my already long work-days have now morphed into one endless workday, punctuated by brief bouts of sleep, as in, three to four hour stretches of shut-eye a night, hasty check-ins with my family, a breathless race to the gym every couple of days or so, a social event tucked into the mix, sporadic check-in with blogs and newsites and then, the inevitable return to the computer.
It is 2:06 a.m. and this is my default mode, hunched over the laptop, lights out around me, focused entirely and solely on my computer screen.
Last year, in an effort to convey his admiration for me and my relentless work style, a client called me a Fembot.
This year, I think I have morphed beyond the robotic.
I am as tied to my laptop as a newborn is to her mother's breast.
Not out of a sense of addiction, but sheer necessity.
And I am fully aware of how insane this whole thing is.
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