I really hate this company.

The code is a disaster. Every single other employee is a salesperson. Nobody has any bloody clue what I do or how difficult it is. They don't care about stability (unless things are crashing), maintenance (until crashing), code quality (until it delays features), or anything apart from shiny new features they can sell. The boss (the king salesman, if ever there was one) doesn't know how to manage, but tries to by acting like his "nice asshole" self -- he's an asshole that gives you passes, makes sure it's bloody obvious that he's doing it begrudgingly, yet everything is still absolutely your fault. If he arbitrarily decides it's too much your fault, he stops being "nice" and flips out on you in front of everyone. That's a "nice asshole": an asshole who can barely even pretend to be nice.

Fuck him.

And you know what? I really hate having to work next to these fucking birds, too.

Today was our weekly conference call, and I was both late and unprepared. I was too focused on my work, and got a ping 4 minutes into the meeting, so I obv didn't have time to prepare. Boss was also pissy today, and I didn't have much to show for my week, thanks to lots of little "OMG NEED ASAP" shit projects that all took too long, pushing back what I was actually supposed to work on. Which didn't get finished, of course, and today that project was "the most important" -- I suspect simply because it wasn't finished. AGADJFSKL. Cue the birds fucking screaming and never fucking shutting up no matter what I did. Blanket? No effect. Spray bottle? SCREAM MORE! Boss was yelling at me, the birds were screaming, and I couldn't think. Goddamn fucking disaster.

and yes, we have a macaw. A macaw and over 20 cockatiels. Said macaw decided today was a lovely day to just fucking SCREAM non-stop, and the tiels were doing their best to keep up. Thinking clearly during this cacophony? Not gonna happen.

Wait, "go elsewhere," you say? Somewhere quieter? Where is this "elsewhere?" We live in a fucking tiny house, and during the call it was (and still is) filled with sleeping people, and surrounded by a fucking desert. Who the fuck thought living in the desert was a good idea, anyway? Like, seriously. What brainless moron thought "You know what? This is a great place! Let's settle down right here," while trudging through the scorching sand and dust, looking at the basically lifeless horizon filled with large, hot, dry, dusty, barren rocks (aka "mountains"), and fucking dying from thirst? Probably someone so delirious from heatstroke they never actually recovered, and continued raving that it's a goddamn paradise to their heat-addled imbecile followers. I really hope they hallucinated a la-z-boy in place of a hedge of teddybear cholla and died an excruciating and prickly death. Fuck that guy/girl, too.

But I digress.

I seriously need an office that isn't a 30 min drive into gang-central. I'd work outside, but I live in the middle of the bloody fucking desert, and get heat exhaustion within about half an hour. Everywhere else in the house people bother me almost incessantly.

just. FUCKING FJASKLDFJGAG.
I HATE THIS PLACE SO SO SO MUCH.

'I've had such Zen lately,' Alex said. Maybe then, but lately? I've just been too exhausted and burned out from putting up with all this shit to get angry. Days like today? I could pour kerosene over everything and laugh as it all just burned to ash.

It’s that time again. I should be sleeping and instead I’m on here delirious with toothache and the dread of the dentist later.

So have a face reveal thread.

Inner Me: Where the fuck is this bug coming from
> Set a breakpoint in every single place where the method I'm using is being called.
> Try calling the method before every function call
Inner Me: FUCKING DAMNIT! It's been hours now
Inner Me: No way it's the library I'm using.
Inner Me: That couldn't possibly be the problem
> Try running it again and delete some more shit
Inner Me: FUCK MEEEEEEEE
> Getting delirious
> Begin to look at some stupid memes.
> Come back to it.
> Have an Ah-ha moment
> Try running it again but rearrange the order of the method calls
> Still no luck
> try git stashing a bunch of my changes
> git stash apply them back
> erase the method call entirely
Inner Me: well that sort of worked, but now all my numbers are incomplete
Inner Me: FUCKING FINE!!! I'LL LOOK IN THE GODDAMN LIBRARY
Inner Me: FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCKKKKK a stupid integer casting was occuring to my floats!!!

Now Talking to my girlfriend.

Me: The problem was in the library I was using
Girlfriend: How are you going to fix it if it's in the library?
Me: ... I can, because I wrote the library...
Me: FUCK ME RIGHT?
Me: I guess moral of the story; sometimes the problems starts with ourselves
GF: Hahaha. Thats Deeep

I'm delirious so here's your daily dose of fuck:

```fasm
; --- * --- * ---
; 64-bit byte-by-byte mash

macro clamp_u8 {
mov cl,$08;
mov rdx,rax;
rept 8 \{
rol rdx,cl;
xor al,dl;
\};
};

; --- * --- * ---
; give 8-bit random seed

macro prng_u8 {
rdtsc;
shl rdx,32;
or rax,rdx;
clamp_u8;
};

; --- * --- * ---
; roll dice

d20: prng_u8;

; x%20, according to gcc ;>
mov edi,eax;
mov eax,-51;
mul dil;
shr ax,12;
lea eax,[rax+rax*4];
lea edx,[0+rax*4];
mov eax,edi;
sub eax,edx;

; discard high and give
and rax,$FF;
ret;
```

I guess `d20` could be inlined too but I thought it'd be too much.

Is it faster than straight C? Probably not. But it's way lighter, so it loads faster. Below five hundred bytes mother fucker.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'll go sit in the darkness repeteadly typing roll 1d20 on the terminal. For reasons.

I guess this is gonna be one of those days where I have to re-read a paragraph over and over until I finally remember something. I'm just trying to learn D: Why won't you let me brain?

It seems like there is a whole another grade of fear — Basilisk grade. It’s impossible to experience it and walk away without serious consequences.

Imagine: I’m barely 20. It’s my first real, official, high-paying job. I’m already a team lead. A big Russian non-govt company with a blue logo. Huge new office in Moscow.
My “childhood” is officially over — I’m not playing around anymore. I’m an adult in every sense of the word.

Several weeks go by. Maybe even a month. Just a regular day at the office. I’m waiting for the coffee machine to heat up, and suddenly, it hits me. I’m here, at the office. Moscow, a city of 10 million people, is beautiful in the summer, yet I can’t just leave the office and go for a walk whenever I want to. When the day is over, it’s already evening, and I barely have time for myself. There are other people around me, with way higher positions, but their schedule is just the same as mine: nine-to-six. My adult life just started. I have forty years of this ahead of me. No matter the company, no matter the position: unless I’m the CEO, I’m doomed to get to work in the morning and go back home in the evening. And then I retire, old and not that beautiful anymore. And then that’s it.

I was never the same after that day. People are plotting my betrayal behind my back. They all act as one. Just out of my frame of view, their heads are turned to me, and they all look at me with the same devilish grin. There are no people — it’s all one huge shoggoth that lives under the office floor, and my colleagues are its ugly tentacles wrapped in human skin. I start missing deadlines. I become paranoid. Next thing I know, I’m at the psychiatrist’s office, being prescribed aripiprazol — a strong antipsychotic that is designed to literally make you slower. Anxiety worsens. I develop restless legs syndrome. I lose my ability to sleep. My intelligence is slipping away. I’m fired.

I have the return to Saint-Petersburg, cariprazine prescription that felt like lobotomy with extra steps, losing my ability to read, delirious manic episodes ahead of me.

It is only now that I kinda-sorta tuned my medication scheme in by going through countless psychiatrists of all sorts. But I sure as hell work at a place where I can do whatever I want if I meet deadlines.