The Autobiography of Nicolae Ceauşescu and Us
Nicolae Ceauşescu smiles at me in person but, most times, from the large and immortal picture of himself above my desk. Goodness truly radiates from that smile. He says a joke to me and I laugh, wholeheartedly. I love his jokes but when he leaves I feel my stomach has been pitted by the world’s biggest corkscrew.
We don’t hang out, he hangs out with me when he feels like choosing me. It is, indeed, an honour to have him preaching to my slightly undeveloped brain.
I like Ceauşescu. His chubby face appeals to my base instincts. I want to befriend him but what he wants to do is control my every movement and know my terrible, decadent, thoughts.
He can be a bit critical, but I understand, it is necessary. Otherwise people don’t get it. You see people are stupid and limited and most are only slightly more advanced than animals. And animals are good for protection, eating or staring at. So yeah he tells me I’m wrong, that I’m a bloody moronic, useless, embarrassing fool. Quite true, I struggle to do anything right.
Nicolae Ceauşescu loves a good meeting. We sit round the table and discuss stuff, not particularly sure what but I’m certain it’s important. And he gets very agitated, using his trademark hand gestures. He’s like a magician, conjuring up business and power through the sheer force of his hands flying through the air.
The meeting is the highlight of any day. It’s when I get to hear of how well we’re all doing. So reassuring to know that I’m doing well. I forget just how well I really am doing until I am reminded by good old Nicolae. Such a gentle soul. So he loves shooting a bear or two but who doesn’t, eh?
We love to look into his eyes as he talks. Bless him, he means every word. Some say he’s, well, illiterate, but it doesn’t matter what degree you’ve got. They say experience matters these days. I can believe that. Who wants to read some stupid book anyway? Watch a good movie or something.
The problem is, yes there is a problem, these meetings tend to go on and I find myself analysing my colleagues and I think hey this guy’s dumb, I can take his place. All I need is Nicolae to trust me. To listen to me. Maybe I should ask Nicolae out to lunch or see where he goes drinking Friday nights. That way I can learn what the deal is. Then, of course, I snap out of it and pretend I’m writing.
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