While seeking the fabled "folder containing the actual information I need," the arrowed pointer on my computer screen froze like Franklin's icebound ship in search of the Northwest Passage. Perhaps the files languishing deep its hard drive will resort to byte-sized cannibalism. Maybe National Geographic will one day feature the mummified remains of all my software in a six page spread. I suppose I could Google the problem but the Internet here is now snow blind, inaccessible tundra. It's a long and difficult trek to the cafeteria from here but I can assemble a reconnaissance party of interns to forage for coffee and donuts. Meanwhile, I'll send out AI created distress signal emails from my phone. There is always hope, even in the bleakest of conditions.
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