She Has No One. That's Why She's Smiling.
"He graduated at the top of his class at the Academy. A master of all weapons. His work is his life. He has no wife, no children. He has no one."
A Chinese government official says something of this ilk to the evil French high-level law-enforcement official in that very-forgettable-were-it-not-for-the-Jet-Li-scenes movie, Kiss of the Dragon. I love that line particularly because that would be exactly me if only I had figured it out sooner. I realized relatively recently that I should have cut the dumb shit and become what I've the heart to be: a hired assassin. Only assassinating bad guys, of course. Like a Robin Hood for the victimized. If I were magically granted the special ninja shoes and weaponry that naturally go with being a hired assassin, my first target would be child molesters, followed by general sex offenders. Not far behind would be murderers who target food delivery people, followed closely by bullies in general. I'd be really, really, really busy. No time for family, indeed.
What brought this obscure yet long, dearly-held fanstasy into the forefront of my mind today was...the holiday office party. Are there any things more effectively depressing than tired flourescent lights being forced to share space with haphazardly-placed strands of miscellaneous tinsel that can't decide if it's being Christian or Jewish enough - red, silver, blue, green...silver, green, red, blue...? Or how about trying to cut a rug that hasn't been changed, much less cleaned, since the turn of the century (our carpeted stairs are held together with duct tape. I'm not kidding.). While the thumping bass of someone's strategically programmed iPod (administration couldn't squeeze enough money out of the employees to hire a DJ) signified the beginning of an afternoon full of sandwiches, potato salad, and Solo cups overflowing with Coke or Bud Light, I settled deeper into my cubicle and surfed the hell out of the winter coat section of overstock.com (a great place for designer bargains!).
After revealing to a trusted coworker my distaste for holiday office parties that actually happen in the office, I was called a "sourpuss." Okay, first of all, I haven't heard that word since Mrs. Brady started sleeping with Greg. Offense at the word "sourpuss" aside, he's got a point. I hate the holiday season, and understand why many people choose to off themselves during this time when escape from innumerable versions of classic holiday tunes is impossible. Someone sitting near me decided to crank up the Lite FM ALL DAY today, whereupon I heard at least five versions of "Do You Hear What I Hear" while I used extreme restraint to refrain from immediate indulgence into my assassin fantasy. Let's just say when January hits, I breathe a huge sigh of relief. "Ah, I made it," I'll say. "Now only 4 more months of freezing cold, which includes pellets of hail, piles of snow, pallets of ice, and perpetual clouds, to go." Compared to the holidays, that part of winter is a cakewalk.
Yes I am admittedly a sourpuss. Office holiday parties (especially ones actually held in the office) are, in my acrid mind, equivalent to Tupperware parties, 9 to 5, rigor, routine, routine, status quo, husband wife and 2.5 kids, white picket fence, nothing more, nothing more. Although this barely makes any sense at all, this is the best way I can explain my disdain for the office holiday party.
Two things in particular that make my hired assassin fantasy take amazing flight: First, the power and skill that come with being worthy of such an occupation, but more importantly, the ties the assassin has to no one and to nothing. The assassin cannot afford such indulgence in relationships so she keeps moving, moving forward, needing nothing and no one, allowing the righting of wrongs cultivate her path.
A Chinese government official says something of this ilk to the evil French high-level law-enforcement official in that very-forgettable-were-it-not-for-the-Jet-Li-scenes movie, Kiss of the Dragon. I love that line particularly because that would be exactly me if only I had figured it out sooner. I realized relatively recently that I should have cut the dumb shit and become what I've the heart to be: a hired assassin. Only assassinating bad guys, of course. Like a Robin Hood for the victimized. If I were magically granted the special ninja shoes and weaponry that naturally go with being a hired assassin, my first target would be child molesters, followed by general sex offenders. Not far behind would be murderers who target food delivery people, followed closely by bullies in general. I'd be really, really, really busy. No time for family, indeed.
What brought this obscure yet long, dearly-held fanstasy into the forefront of my mind today was...the holiday office party. Are there any things more effectively depressing than tired flourescent lights being forced to share space with haphazardly-placed strands of miscellaneous tinsel that can't decide if it's being Christian or Jewish enough - red, silver, blue, green...silver, green, red, blue...? Or how about trying to cut a rug that hasn't been changed, much less cleaned, since the turn of the century (our carpeted stairs are held together with duct tape. I'm not kidding.). While the thumping bass of someone's strategically programmed iPod (administration couldn't squeeze enough money out of the employees to hire a DJ) signified the beginning of an afternoon full of sandwiches, potato salad, and Solo cups overflowing with Coke or Bud Light, I settled deeper into my cubicle and surfed the hell out of the winter coat section of overstock.com (a great place for designer bargains!).
After revealing to a trusted coworker my distaste for holiday office parties that actually happen in the office, I was called a "sourpuss." Okay, first of all, I haven't heard that word since Mrs. Brady started sleeping with Greg. Offense at the word "sourpuss" aside, he's got a point. I hate the holiday season, and understand why many people choose to off themselves during this time when escape from innumerable versions of classic holiday tunes is impossible. Someone sitting near me decided to crank up the Lite FM ALL DAY today, whereupon I heard at least five versions of "Do You Hear What I Hear" while I used extreme restraint to refrain from immediate indulgence into my assassin fantasy. Let's just say when January hits, I breathe a huge sigh of relief. "Ah, I made it," I'll say. "Now only 4 more months of freezing cold, which includes pellets of hail, piles of snow, pallets of ice, and perpetual clouds, to go." Compared to the holidays, that part of winter is a cakewalk.
Yes I am admittedly a sourpuss. Office holiday parties (especially ones actually held in the office) are, in my acrid mind, equivalent to Tupperware parties, 9 to 5, rigor, routine, routine, status quo, husband wife and 2.5 kids, white picket fence, nothing more, nothing more. Although this barely makes any sense at all, this is the best way I can explain my disdain for the office holiday party.
Two things in particular that make my hired assassin fantasy take amazing flight: First, the power and skill that come with being worthy of such an occupation, but more importantly, the ties the assassin has to no one and to nothing. The assassin cannot afford such indulgence in relationships so she keeps moving, moving forward, needing nothing and no one, allowing the righting of wrongs cultivate her path.