Brain Puree Leaking Out My Nostrils

I once read that when the ancient Egyptians mummified their dead, they had to remove the internal organs to prevent them from decomposing inside the corpse. The point was to keep the body intact for burial, so the organs were pulled out, dehydrated by some embalming technique that they invented, then stuffed back in the corpse. A human sausage, essentially. The problem was the brain - there wasn't a good way to get at it. So they figured out that if they stuck a metal rod up a nostril and into the skull and twirled it around like a whisk, they could turn the brain to soup. Then it was easy to drain the gray matter out the ears and nostrils, leaving the skull brain free.

This is what working a nine-to-five feels like to me, minus the whisk. As the week progresses, my energy is drained and my brain pulped, so that by Friday all traces of gray matter have been whisked away. By the time I made it home last Friday, the only activity my remaining neurons could handle was getting on the outside of a glass of wine. It's not that my job isn't challenging or enjoyable; it's the schedule that does me in. The ancient Egyptians would have been interested in the long-term effects of the forty hour work week for their mummification procedures: the dry predictability, the steady pace, the lethargy of the long afternoons. Why wait until someone's a corpse before you puree their brain? They could skip the nasty whisk-up-the-nostril step and start the slow drain method during the relatively healthy years of adulthood, somewhere between adolescence and corpse.

But I'm sticking (nay, clinging) to my theory that the steady torpor of the work week is none other than gate to self-realization. What has passion and unpredictability ever done for me? It's got me through a whole lot of gates, but not the Gate. Lust for life is all fine and good, but it feeds the ego by fanning the flames of adventure and diversity. Starve the ego and cleanse the soul! It's worth a try, and it's not as though I have a choice at this point. I agreed to work for three months, and I won't go back on my word. So this is an experiment in quenching the fire, diving headlong into mind-numbing routine, and leading the conventional life of a suit until the end of the year. If this doesn't get me enlightened, nothing will.

Above: This was taken when I arrived home on Friday after my first 40-hour week. I look a little gaunt, but at least the hair's good.