Eastwood
is such a nice place to work in. The pruned trees, the quaint brick
walk and a main street lined with modest buildings that host a bulk of
the country’s best IT companies. The Cyberpark they call it. Watching
the Mediterranean inspired architecture of the city walk as I drive
through, I can almost imagine people walking out of a circa 1920s
grocery store carrying brown paper bags filled with fruits or a lanky
kid selling newspapers on the corner.

“I’m hungry, can we get some grub before logging in for work?” See? It works every time.

“Yeah
okay, It’s my last day and I’m pretty sure nobody’s gonna get on my
case. I’m the law today.” I say pulling into an empty parking slot and
lighting another cigarette.I have a serious problem.I’ve been making up
for the past 5 hours when I couldn’t get my fix.I normally take
nicotine breaks every one and a half hours so now I’m itching to smoke
two or three of these cancer sticks. I need to quit. Pronto. I don’t
want requiems to my name earlier than necessary.

A
friend suggested those nicotine patches but they’re expensive and
somehow, a patch that induces small quantities of nicotine directly to
your bloodstream at regular intervals through your skin just doesn’t
sound as enjoyable as dragging in clouds of nicotine suffused smoke.

As
luck would have it, none of the restaurants were open other than
McDonald’s and as you may have gathered by now, I hate McDonald’s more
than polio. I ended up ordering the most tolerable item on the menu:
Chicken nuggets.

“So
what was your day like?” Maffy asks me. I hate it; it’s my last day at
work and she’s asking me the same fucking question she asks me every
day. I want to feel important; and her being the company’s Employee
Morale Officer, I want her to give me a plaque of appreciation for my
distinguished service to the company. Hell if it’s possible, I want her
to construct a marble statue of me or name a corridor or an area in the
office after me.‘The Mike Villar Pantry’ has this certain ring to it
doesn’t it?

“Same
shit. I had pizza delivered for lunch.” If there’s one thing we can
talk about it’s food. This lady prides herself as an outspoken culinary
connoisseur of sorts. Strangely enough, Ms. Foodie is here with me
eating greasy fast food.

“That
is SO unfair! I’ve been craving pizza for a week now.” She said in a
typical blonde Californian way, making sure to make the ‘SO’ part of
her sentence linger.

“Yep.
You know what’s crazy? The delivery boy was 30 minutes late and under
those circumstances I’m not supposed to pay for it anymore right?” I
said dipping my nuggets into the barbecue sauce in a container that
strangely resembles those things you take stool samples in. “I ended up
paying for it.” I added.

“Why?” She asks, stirring her soda lazily with a straw.

“Because
the delivery boy was a sad sight. He was this scraggy looking chap with
raging acne. I would feel bad having him pay for that late delivery.
That acne did it for me man, I swear, I wanted to take him to the derma
or something.” I said.

“You’re such a dork!” I hate it when she says that.

We
finished our meal and went straight up to our office. Boy, am I gonna
miss this place especially my office whose privacy played host to
numerous naps and whose walls bore witness to how I wrote excessively
long blog entries like this one using company time. It was good while
it lasted.

I
have one more presentation to complete for a prominent Utah-based
telephone company before I call it a day. I have already packed all my
things into one of these ‘resignation boxes’ or whatever they’re
called. Now the nostalgia’s starting to kick in but I’m not gonna write
about that; I’ve misallocated enough company time as is.