An ode to paperwork. I really do love filling out forms. I know it’s nonsense. I think it’s my bruised perfectionist brain – I get this little dopamine surge every time I fill in a box with the correct information. No debates, no subjectivity, no success that somehow isn’t success – just the box, labeled with what it wants, and I can put it in. It’s all right here.
The cruel ironies of my life have always boiled down to “born in the wrong time.” My traumatized brain is happiest when it’s allowed to behave like a computer. If I’d been born twenty years earlier, I’d never have wanted for work in my life. Someone who for some ungodly reason loves data entry and form-filling? They’d have stuck me in the basement of some library and I’d never have been seen again, and I would have fucking loved it.
As it is, all the useful professional skills I have are things a computer can do better. Where do they keep all the terrible old books that no computer can read? I’ll digitize those, lemme at ’em.
There’s just something about a form I like –
a series of questions, all with answers,
no confusion, nothing left to chance or
left aside, every single box a strike.
Would that life were always so straightforward,
all questions presented multiple-choice,
all change preceded by a warning voice,
all the hidden costs already factored.
Get to the end and it’s really over;
the questions you get are the ones you see.
They know nothing but what they asked of me,
none of it a demand or a favor.
Paper armor, signature livery:
raise the inky lance and charge another!