Our suite in the soulless office park has a hallway that connects the front and back parts of the building. At one end of the hall sits a mysterious, 1985-ish computer terminal with orange letters on a black, eighty-character-by-twenty-four-line screen. The screen is always on, flashing cryptic messages and symbols. So I was running through the hallway, frustrated by a high-tech copier and late for a meeting, when my right leg hit the terminal. Hard. “Hmm,” thinks me. “Is this computer important? Someone told me why it’s always on. Why was that again? Eh, whatever. I’m late.” Shortly thereafter, my co-workers began complaining that they could no longer make outgoing phone calls. Then I remembered—the hallway computer controls soulless office park telecommunications. Soon after this incident, I blew up a database. And then this morning my hairdryer exploded in a shower of blue sparks. To minimize the impact of this destructive phase and to make sure no one sees my horrible, naturally-dried hair, I plan to keep a low profile for the next few days. This means no blogging, lest I crash the Internet.