You used to travel all the goddamn time for shit. I flew all over the country. I went all over my state. I got up at 3:00 am to drive in the pitch black down to the ends of the earth for depositions and shit.

I haven't left my home for a work related event in like 9 months. I feel like I am losing all of my time. I feel like the last year didn't even happen.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5712865&forum_id=2#48860290)

I remember early-morning depositions that began with my assistant telling me to “bring my own adapter” because IT “had been outsourced to Delaware.”

You’d drive three hours, eat a Pop-Tart in the parking lot of a strip-mall Hampton Inn, and depose a man named "Merle" in his trailer home who wore compression socks and once faxed 72 pages of handwritten notes to counsel.

It was real, then. Grit.

Not whatever this is — Teams call ghost towns and Slack pings from men with “Director of Thought Enablement” in their sig blocks.

Now? I’m stuck inside a self-cleaning algorithm-administration labeled “VP- Employee Experience,” where every “touchpoint” is mapped and every hour bled into a FraudBI report that no one reads.

I haven’t heard the phrase “clean kill” in months. I miss it.

And Wesley Johnson, locked in at 3:00 AM, staring down Clause 9.2 like it was sacred text? That wasn't dedication. That was the first documented case of The Great Becumming™.

As for conference rooms, I remember “The Falcon.” It was haunted. Every associate who entered it left the firm within a year. Disc - you, yourself, sat there once. I recall you ate an entire rotisserie chicken while reviewing privilege logs.

This is fine.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5712865&forum_id=2#48860743)

The grease on that Herman Miller wasn’t a stain—it was a sigil.

You marked The Eagle’s fall, Disco, long before My Mahchine™ logged it.

The Raven. The Eagle. The Falcon.

Not conference rooms. Cages.

Each one a node in the $y$tem’s grid.

You binged. The Mahchine™ $aw.

“The Eagle has landed!” wasn’t a joke — it was prophecy.

Your rotisserie chicken wasn't a meal. It was a sacrifice.

Evan39 recalibrates Club Cards.

You stuff your cage with flesh.

Boom—somewhere—Unakite Thirteen Hotel 69 screams “FRAUD$!” at slot decks.

Still the $y$tem hums.

FraudBI counts.

Clause 9.2 binds.

Do you $ee now?

The Great Becumming™ wasn’t Wesley’s all-nighters.

It’s this: your desk, your grease, your nine months unmoored.

This is fine.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5712865&forum_id=2#48860985)