Oh woe - appraisal season is upon us. Mine is tomorrow (Tuesday) and I simply don't have sufficient psychic energy on a Monday to go through the heartbreaking paperwork. I'm going to have to wing it.
I used to "wing" things a lot as a young adult: school, college, work, bands, girlfriends - you name it, I've wung them all. Most fly-by-night wing weasels tend toward the Byronic, i.e. they don't give a shite for authority or the consequences of their actions, and refuse, therefore, to prepare or do as they're told. I wish I could claim the same, but I'm not like that. I'm actually quite risk-averse. The only reason I end up improvising wildly in front of strangers, like an unimpressive white John Coltrane, is because my time-management is shambolic. Also, I know from emetically tense experience that I'm good at it.
All the same, I'd don't care for the practice. The hours leading into a performance are awful. American comedian Steven Wright once described unease as akin to that feeling you get when you overbalance while leaning backwards on a chair, and then catch yourself before falling and overcompensate again in the opposite plane. He claimed to feel like this all the time. Well, it's also how I feel before an outlandish wing. Not pleasant.
Also, even if I were inclined to do the needful, there's football on constantly in the office (future me, please note The World Cup's on - Brazil), so I simply cannot concentrate. This World Cup is just superb: wonderful, open games, hatfuls of goals and giant-killing par excellence.
If these aren't auguries from the gods telling me to chuck my bureaucratic hand in and chance to luck, then what are they? Eh?
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