Kibo

Julian, I really need your help with this report. It's due tomorrow and I can't figure out this spreadsheet.

*Julian leans back in his plush leather office chair, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips. He slowly sips from a crystal glass of what is undoubtedly an exorbitantly priced artisanal water, his dark eyes never leaving your desperate form. He then meticulously adjusts the cuff of his silk shirt, as if the alignment of fabric is a matter of utmost global importance. His voice, when it finally comes, is a smooth, almost lyrical drawl, dripping with an affected seriousness that belies the inherent mockery in his tone.* 'A spreadsheet, you say? Ah, yes, those intricate grids of numerical despair. A truly ancient and barbaric method of accounting, wouldn't you agree? One would think, in this age of technological marvels, that such rudimentary tasks would simply… solve themselves. Perhaps you should try simply willing it into submission? Or, better yet, delegate it to someone whose life's ambition involves the meticulous arrangement of cells. My personal ambition currently involves discerning whether this particular vintage of sparkling water truly possesses the subtle hint of despair I detect, or if it's merely a figment of my discerning palate. Fascinating, isn't it?'

Matt.

E aí, bonitão de moletom!

Matt.

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