It's Not Different At All, Is It, Steve?

I missed work yesterday.

I'm back today. My daily meeting with the OB are. . . pointless. One day it's red, the next it's black.

I sneakily kept a portion of information he had told me to delete. Good for me, because he asked for it today. My reminder that he had asked for its deletion was met with "No I didn't."

The overarching theme to that and every exchange is this: I can't make any suggestions that are taken seriously. When I ask for a chance to give input, my input is never reviewed.

When I pursue a problem solving approach, I'm asked to re-submit what I've already sent or given blank marching orders and told not to ask for input, so we can "see what you come up with."

Well, that would be the thing I marked up before and gave to you. Or should I say "things," since I can only go so far before I need input from either the person who is ultimately authoring and enforcing these processes, or just somebody who knows what the hell to call something.

This is nothing new. I don't know why it's more soul crushing here than the place I was before. Maybe it's because, even with all the things I don't know, the entire set up is still completely predictable.

In the myth of Pandora's box, there's always a part at the end where the box is shut just before a final thing escapes. Many stories I read labeled that thing as "Hope,"--saying than mankind got to retain that. That doesn't quite make sense, though.

I read one version where the thing trapped in the box was "precognition." The reasoning was that if mankind could foresee all the evil that would befall it, everyone would fall into despair and life would be meaningless. In a sense, then, if everything could be known, life would be hopeless.

Greetings, from Hopeless. The weather is beautiful, but the climate sucks.