It seems to me that a certain percentage of the violation of nature that I call the human race has an irksome habit. In fact, it’s so irksome, that many a times, I wish for these peasants to drown in their own blood. The paradox is that this habit, in the correct context, can be positive.
I require concise answers to questions in my work, and not only in my work but in other aspects of my life. When I ask a colleague a question, I don’t want a slice of their inner dialog combined with a vague pretension of an answer. If said colleague doesn’t know the answer, then they can kindly point me in the right direction and spare me a snapshot of a turbid inner life.
This malady is exacerbated when the person ostensibly answering my question is of the marketing or idea man ilk. In fact, the tendency of this ilk to dish out a slice of inner dialog instead of giving tight, controlled answers leads me to the conclusion that they all are better off used as fertilizer for my opium farm. To counter my complaints, such “people” answer with enlightenments along the lines of well, my mind is so rich with ideas that I cannot contain myself. Write it in a fucking blog. What you find to be insight is mostly dribble. Someone else can sort through the ramblings to find the 0.46% that may be of value to me.
The illness springs from the storyteller archetype - the old man in the center of the ring who recounts (highly edited and enhanced) tales of his tedious life. This archetype lives strong in self-proclaimed entertainers in our epoch, jokesters and other ego-addicts. My recommendation is to write a book or at least a blog. That way, if I spend time with the ramblings, at least I will have chosen to do so. Don’t bombard me with an inner dialog that you don’t have the willpower to tame and especially when I need a concise answer to a question.
About the habit being positive in the correct context - I changed my mind. They should all DIE.
