Dear Mr. Supercomputer

I sit behind a small wooden desk; it's made of the kind of wood you can't really tell is wood, or just some eleborate synthetic trick.

It's July and my hair has grown long again and people at the induction programme are talking to me, asking questions about my life and origins to which my reply always differs: "I'd like to be known as a good person inspite of being spoilt by my rich dad"(pretentious/annoying/self dephricating) ; "I was born, it was a pretty protracted and agonizing expereince for my mum" (self-dephticating in its own way/ annoying).

Some of the people there think I'm quirky, and sometimes make it a point to tell me this- this is a compliment; it is alright to be quirky. that is until you're too quirky, in which case you jsut become self-dephricating/ annoying/ prentntious, which isn't good, but I constantly worry about/

On Sunday I attend a champagne brunch with a few of my collegues. who Like me are new to the company I work for, and also attend the weekend induction programme. I consider this to be a social privellege, as everyone present at brunch smokes(except me) , which somehow in my mind makes them the social elite of the weekend programme.

The following Monday, when a senior co-worker who'd overheard me talking about the brunch asks me how it went, I reply 'decadent' - which it was - In fact it was so decadent that I'd fondued a prawn for the sake of fondueing a prawn, and then eaten nothing but it's head.