Boiling mad.

Hello friends and assorted readers.

In accordance with the updated covid protocols, the communal coffee machine and kettle have disappeared from work, leaving us to scramble for a new hot morning beverage source. My solution was to spend $40 on the largest insulated bottle I could find, 1.2L, to tote boiled water from home because I prefer to do all my teabagging at work.

On the left is a tall black flask decorated with a Krampus head sticker. Krampus has its long tongue out. In the middle is a double-walled stainless steel camp mug labelled LKVY and a sticker with an illustration of a tired cat drinking out of a mug. On the right is a nondescript espresso cup holding a discarded teabag.
My latest functionality requirements.

My desperation as a habitual tea drinker rivals that of coffee drinkers. At least I thought so until I found out that someone brought their camp stove so that they could heat some water for their Aeropresso in the loading bay. What did upper management think would happen? Or was this Bonnie Henry’s suggestion?

A poorly manipulated image showing Bonnie Henry "holding" a stainless steel electric kettle. The caption reads: "Flatten the curve: ditch the kettle."
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Makeshift southpaw.

Essential oils? As in, you’d die without them? I think not.

My right arm has been out of commission for a few days now. There’s no exciting story behind this injury: it’s a repetitive strain injury that started back in my desk job days. It began with tendinitis in my wrists, which is why I now use a mouse with my left hand and can type one-handed. For the most part, my wrists are okay; however, the bike accident from two years ago added a dodgy right shoulder, which is what’s currently bothering me, to my growing list of ailments. It feels like I have a heavy, burning limb hanging from my shoulder: 0/10 would not recommend.

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Lighthearted pandemonium.

‘Member VCRs? I owned one up until 2009, which I feel is far longer than most people. I finally gave up on this antiquated technology when I first moved away from Victoria. Now, the story of how I let go of my VCR is more involved than, “I donated it. The End.” It’s more like: “I donated it, then realized that the VHS tape featuring seven-year-old me in an educational video about sexual abuse was still in there, and the tape in its case had been swapped with a vintage porno.” See this post for details.

(The photo to follow is somewhat NSFW.)

Continue reading “Lighthearted pandemonium.”