Miércoles con los Amigos Invisibles vol 7.

9:24am-11:45pm yesterday. New personal best!

Which I can tell you with roughly minute of thought is 14.35 hours. Side effect of having all the managers do their departments' punch edits by hand, on paper. Person punches in at 8:24, wasn't scheduled until 9, punched out at 3:30. They cross out the wrong "in" time and write the correct one. That takes away 36 minutes, but in order to represent that in decimals, I have to convert from base 6 to base 10. It's easier to make a whole new number than to subtract: I just count on my fingers to learn that 9 to 3:30 is 6.5 hours. But for those cases where the change is not so straighforward, I have all sorts of things permanently embedded in my brain now. Ten minutes is .1666... of an hour, three minutes is .05, six minutes is .1, besides the ones most people could tell you, like that fifteen minutes is .25.

Side effect of working as an accountant? Getting less bad at math! I wish I could say I planned it all in advance, but I'll sure take advantage of the career path I randomly ended up in!

Whenever I stay really late like that, I punch out on the kitchen or dining room computer so I get the little paper slip from the Squirrel printer. Then, if it breaks my previous record, it goes up on the fridge like a kindergartener's prize doodle. This time I was so pleased with myself (and so groggy) that I stole fridge-word-magnets from all the other stuff me and Dad have up there to make the following haiku:

late night at dumb job
tested my philosophy
but I so aced it

I showed Dad a printout of part of the description of my yesterday dream. Seemed only fair. Yesterday morning, when I told him stright up I had a dream about ghosts, he said "you know I was about to travel last night, and I'd gotten, uh, some things prepared, you know" but then had thought wiser of it and gone to sleep instead. So this morning when I was gonna give him the printout I said "well, you'd pulled the boat up to the wharf, and I sort of borrowed it, so I figured it might have gone somewhere you'd recognize."

When I said "pulled the boat up to the wharf", though, he gave one of those astonished starts, like you would if somebody on the street came up to you and called you by your AIM or Warcraft name or something and was all, "Hey, how's it going?" Ah, invisible-stuff-doing people are all the same. Nobody, no matter how much nifty crap they've done, is ever 100% certain they're not just crazy and making it all up. Guess I stumbled on the exact image he was using for the facility of that movement. Good to know. :D Not that I have designs in the area. I have no desire to go OOB anywhere with a physical analogue. Mindspace is dangerous enough!

He thinks the "swamp" might not refer to a literal swamp, but maybe instead the internal bog of persons who were consumed by appearances in life and neglected the development of their inner selves. This would make sense, since I would imagine dead soldiers would have stronger bonds with each other even as ghosts than this bunch appeared to. Heh. I'm no Dante, but maybe I could come up with some sort of poem illustrating What Happens to Dead Jerks.

Want to say more but am bored and short on ideas. Maybe I'll go find something to read.