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124 was spiteful.

125 was simply trying too hard.

123 was dedication. Nobody had time to sit around coding 123 functions. That would be like thousands of lines of code, and that would mean millions of key presses and countless breaks to go to the bathroom to deposit the Baja Blast that had filled up the bladder. Let's say for the sake of grammatical argument that this person was me.

Could I do it? Could I do a thing for the sake of doing that thing? Write 124 functions across three different documents of JavaScript code? Granted, it probably wouldn't take 124 functions, and granted, I had no idea how to get the code to interact with the infuriatingly obscured infrastructure of the engine we were stuck working with.

And what was the point of it all? Some vanity project? Because someone wanted to do something for themselves, like some kind of self-medicating therapy without the condescending addiction to some chemical? I remember when I did things for myself. Those were the days. Nostalgia is a crippling disease; TV said so. Comedy TV. This show had the bravery to make a daring stand against the oppressive force that was nostalgia and mercilessly parodize it, because that was high satire no doubt.

I was affronted. Personally slighted by this nobody's attempt to dredge up the silver-lined past. What did he expect of me? To feel passion again? To use coding not to do a job, but to explore, to experience, to fascinate myself in the accomplishment? Jeez, that sounded like effort! Why put in effort when you can have a job instead? What merit is there in integrity, especially artistic integrity?

I'd been given a very well-written design document from this person, and when I had a need to clarify a point or two, he was spot-on about responding and updating his words. At least he was willing to make my job easy, which is more than can be said for an employer.

Why must I do this? Why did I do this to myself? Maybe I was the one to blame. I was the one who elected to take computer science every year in high school. Back even further, in middle school, I was the one who broke the bell curve by programming a Space Invaders clone that other students became hopelessly enamored with playing. And this no-talent hack wanted me to return to my youth to entertain his pathetic, slapdash whim?

I would write 124 functions. No more, no less. I probably wouldn't even need half of that, but this is the only way to spite him, to rub his nose in his own ignorance, something that gives you the best kind of high no burning leaf or crushed mineral up the nose can get you. I'd get me some Mr. Pibb and set down and crunch all this out over the next couple of weeks, spending maybe an hour every two out of three days. I mean, I've written more in one day, for exams and such, for college, but where was the merit in that? Hell, I could crunch out what he asked for in two hours because when you've spent your college career majoring in JavaScript it's just so pathetically easy to crank out a program or two in 24 hours. Sure, it would need polish. It would need proofreading. I'm not an imbecile.

I'm gonna take a break, though. Gonna watch some speedrun videos online. You wish you could play a game as efficiently as them. And nothing socks it to corporations than flaunting what a waste all their time had been, when they spent years hammering out a game, only for it to be beaten, credits rolling, in 11 minutes due to some oversight. Saps.

Alright, time for another break. My feet hurt. So fucking much. Gonna take a shower.

Okay, it's been four days now. I guess I should write the comments outlining what this script thingy will aim to achieve. Probably best just to dump the design doc info into it. It was pretty efficient and hit all the major bases. That'll be enough for today.

Okay, it's been three weeks, and this guy is already starting to drive me up the wall. Where does he get off, messaging me out of the blue, saying all coy like like a little bitch would, "Hey, I haven't heard from you in a while. How's everything going?" Like he cares. I can't stand dishonest people. I'll have to fend him off with some excuse.

"Sorry, been real busy with school and work and such." Gets 'em every time. I'd finished with college in four years flat by '07, then hit the ground running. Now I write code for online stores. Easy-peasy. Get it done in a flash, have a bot write most of the rote functions for me, then I get like eight hours to dick around on the Internet on the clock, sending out over nine-thousand "Never Gonna Give You Up" videos, because people love that lip-syncing ginger with the weak lyrics and the lack of any meritable talent. Kid looks like a young Gary Glitter and dresses like a preppie.

Five months have passed, and he has the nerve to ask me, ME, if there's anything he can do to help assist me getting the coding done. Whatever. He could have learned how to code it all himself in this time. I don't get no respect. I wanna ask him why he doesn't just do it himself, but I bet dollars to donuts he'd have a pissy fit if I did. I don't need drama. I'm above drama. People's petty problems are beneath me. While everyone was whining out their self-entitlement, I was busy learning computers, making myself better, not wasting my life away. People sicken me. They really do. Nobody knows how to figure things out for themselves. The human race really is just that dumb. They all have personality diseases or something. Depression, anxiety, those are excuses; they don't exist. People are just spoiled lazy.

I've got my own coding projects on my plate anyway. Much more important. Coding my own x-ray client for Minecraft. I coded a bot that goes around editing the links on Wikipedia to send visitors searching for stuff to completely different pages. Then they get so confused, it's funny to lmpw they're getting so worked up just trying to have a thought.

It's been a year now, and this stupid guy hasn't given up on me. Like, dummy, if I was gonna do it ever, I woulda done it by now. So I blocked him the moment he said something weak and cloying, because that's all he knows how to get things out of life. He has to beg someone else to do it for him. I mean, Jesus wept. I don't deserve this. I didn't say anything to him. Just cut him out, because you gotta cut out the chaff in your life. If there's anything you should learn by my example here, if you're able, it's that life is just too damn short to waste on damaged goods like that. I swear, if I ever hear from him again, I would be totally justified in having him SWATted.