When the IT guy at work gets all up in my gorgeously disorganized desktop and starts shunting my files into a secret folder and the folder into a hidden e-vault which is housed on a giant mystery drive and then rises from my moist seat and proceeds to stride out the door like something good just happened, I say WAIT A MINUTE and call him back. I want to tell him that next time he should just run in, muss up my hair and throw all my papers up on the roof for storage because that would have a very similar effect and then at least I could get in a few good hours staggering through the halls looking as battered as I feel.
But he looks back with those watery gremlin eyes that haven't seen sunlight since his days in the unicycle club at Harvey Mudd and my heart softens. "Here," I say, "You forgot your iphone."
My name is Nasreen Yazdani. I used to write micro essays, one-liners, and other small, lighthearted things. Most of them were funny.