ER - I - AM
Here I am!
Right in that chair over there. Shackled in tight. With my bestie in a baby mask ready to torture me to death.
All the symbology is prescient.
The whole dynamic spectacle is nearly exact, scene for scene.
I'm living in a real-life version of the movie "Brazil."
I became, finally, aware of this when today (today in my dystopian upside-down reality) a hapless yet ruthless maintenance man burst into my apartment, waking me up, to repair my air conditioning unit. You know, the one with all the ducts. And apparently oozing, leaky diaphragms weeping moisture into my walls and, no doubt from the way he barged in, water was bursting like machine-gun wielding stormtroopers through the ceiling of the dwelling below. So he said. So I must trust him.
While he endeavored to litter my home with all manner of tube and wire entangling everything around (so I imagined) I pointed out the black mold. I told him, as I scrambled to find a pen and paper that I'd have the notification in writing, as required by Addendum 4, Clause 4, Paragraph D of the lease contract (not at all imaginary), for him shortly. But suddenly he changed from Bob Hoskins' mindless cog into DeNiro's Harry Tuttle and said I didn't need to put it in writing. Of course, after I went back to bed and he finished up whatever he was doing, I saw no elimination of the mold. He was a false Tuttle.
Failing to fully fall back asleep I got up for the "day" around 6:30 PM and took my shower being careful to not further agitate my oozing wounds...complications from plastic surgery of sorts. More specifically the sort that come about to permanently scar up my legs caused by all manner of sharp jagged things in the dark of the work campus that I bump into each night. My delicate skin is prone to such issues.
Having no time for sleep due to insomnia, apnea and the above style intrusions, I can't dream of being a New Wave archangel striking down a wicked Samurai Satan with my Heavenly Sword, I can only solemnly don my Oculus Rift and soar through the Pleiades trying to hyperdrive away from human-player griever pirate wings gathering near the first major battle of the likely already-commenced Imperial/Federation War.
I come into work a few hours ago, here at the Culture of Blame Department of the Ministry of Misinformation and learn that last night I printed out a 25 instead of a 35 for the units of insulin required by one resident. Oh no, oh dear. Who can I get to accept a receipt, stamped appropriately of course, for this error? Maybe it was a bug which fell in the printer?
Other analogies?
Katheryn Helman's character with her continually rejuvenating face lifts? Why everyone around me, really. My newly-hired coworkers here are like reflections to a time back when "Brazil" was still in theaters (albeit with its studio-bosses imposed alternate happy ending in place) and I was in their shoes...a young 21-year-old newbie with a future so bright I had to wear shades.
Michael Palin's Ole Boy Chap is clearly none other than My Habit. Ole chum, we used to hang together when we were younger. Then we moved on, he had triplets and got a fascinating job, one he could bring the kiddies to. As we reconnected due to happenstance, proximity and the promise of something better, things got uglier I'm afraid. And now here we are, me strapped in my torture chair and he in his grotesque mask.
But before he gets every drop of my spirit out of me, or puts any more drops of spirit into me, I chose to drift away to a virtual reality fantasy of happiness, where were all in it together. And then I'll be free.