Last night I dreamt my office building was being moved from where it is now to some raised foundations on the river (which isn't there. On Sunday whilst photographing prettiness with Figaro, I realized how fucked it is there isn't a proper river in the city.) I thought the move was the height of idiocy, especially since it happened in the middle of the working day whilst we were all there. But as we approached the river and I realized the sweet fucking view I was going to get, I experienced a moment - just a moment - of pleasure.
Anyways, the building movers overshot the mark and released us in the middle of the river just past the foundations. It felt as though my skyscraper was rocking back and forth on a sandy riverbed, about to topple. Luckily I had broken my window in a fit of pique earlier that day, and gauged that I could use my chair to beat down my co-workers while I broke the windows on the opposite side of the building. The fact I was on the 16th floor didn't seem to bother me; the only thing that bothered me was waiting to see which way the building was going to fall so I could scramble out the other side.
It was sensible that it didn't bother me, because the building turned into a schoolbus floating in a huge pool. My broken window was just above the water level. My co-workers started acting like retards, talking about opening the doors and going out, forgetting the water would wash in and maybe break their necks. I was annoyed but couldn't get my tits up to climb out my own window without a sort of group acquiescense until I saw someone in a floating schoolbus ahead of us do just that. I scrambled out, clambered over the side of the pool, and went back to my apartment to search for the reefer a Basque terrorist had hid in my jewelry box.
The moral of the dream?
I need a new fucking job. But will it help? Since I gave up television, never liked magazines that weren't the Economist (though I am waiting for my first issue of the Utne Reader, that I bought from my neice while she was carrying out a subscription drive for her crazy-ass school) and don't watch MSN Video, I'm exposed to comparatively little aggressive advertising, but it's more than enough. I could quit my job ten times over, and the only result would be that I didn't have to study and write about methods of aggressive advertising - I'd still see them every day.
Sometimes I think the real reason I want to move back to France is that it's still socially acceptable for angry young men there to spray-paint obscene messages on billboard advertising about how much they fucking hate advertising.