I’m so sick and tired of changing my password.
My computer at work prompts me to update my password every few weeks, and it requires that my new password be different from my previous 12 passwords. Can somebody tell me what the hell it is I’ve got on this computer that is so vital that I have to go through this ordeal so often?
I suppose I’ve got lots of pictures of stuff. Somebody may find out my password and be able to access them! I have some videos of my friend Paul and I. That’d be seriously dangerous if people found that. Any my Word documents! Oh my god, if somebody were to ever get access somehow to my Anthropology papers, then this whole company would go down in searing hellfire! Or heaven forbid they could get access to the registration program we have at work – they would undoubtedly sit there befuddled because it’s the single least intuitive program ever devised.
Right now, in order to differentiate between my current password and my previous twelve (isn’t 12 a bit of overkill, by the way? Would it have killed them to say 10?) I currently have an arbitrary double-digit number following it. I use this clumsy and stupid system to accomodate an even more idiotic work requirement. This is an insightful microcosm of the things wrong with this workplace – we’re forced to spend our time and energy fulfilling so many inane tasks that we’re weighed down with tedium even before we’ve actually begun working on something productive.
There may be something I could do to address this issue, but it’s doubtful that I will. It’s far more enjoyable to sit here and gripe to all of you about it. You’re all so sensitive and understanding. You really seem to care about me. It’s like you understand me even better than I understand myself. Truth be told, I’m actually an incredibly lonely and pathetic individual. I mumble a lot and bathe irregularly. My movements are sluggish and my diet consists of frozen pizzas and buttermilk. I need you so badly. Please come back to me. I won’t do those things to you again. I had been huffing gasoline and I wasn’t myself. There is no excuse for what I did to your couch. And I’ll never make fun of that thing with your ear again. I can be good. I just need one more chance to redeem myself, and I can make you happy.
Okay, now where was I?