$ make build

“If we split this into multiple files it will be slow because it will generate random I/O patterns. We need to optimize this for sequential access and read from a single file”

My lover and I travelled many miles, to a hotel that we would never actually spend the night in, because before the sky even began to darken — very soon after we checked in — a receptionist knocked carefully on the door and told me, eyes aimed firmly at the floor, that my husband was on the phone.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” he told me. “You don’t want me anymore. I know you don’t want me anymore. You’re not my wife, not deep down. You’re not yourself and I can’t get through to you. Something’s wrong. I don’t know quite what it is, but I know that something is wrong.”

For the first time, that night I could see myself as the other people in my life could see me. It was deeply unappealing and embarrassing. I hated myself. But I told myself that it was fine, as long as I kept drinking and the party went on.

Nothing I said was true. I was being so horribly unfair to him and I knew it, even as I said the words. I was lying, dredging up ridiculous arguments from absolutely nowhere, but I am good with words. I can choose them well when I am cornered. As I spoke I saw every single word hit its mark.

I have spent almost the entire last decade in a fairly specialized product company, building high performance I/O systems. I had the opportunity to see storage technology evolve rapidly and decisively. Talking about storage and its developments felt like preaching to the choir.

I wanted to live, I told him. I didn’t want to trudge into the future yoked uncomfortably to someone who needed to know my every move and who wanted to spend every minute with me.

I said that if I had any problem, it was that he was being selfish and trapping me. I told him that if anything was wrong, it was the way he tried constantly to clip my wings, to hover around me, to make me the kind of wife he had always known I never wanted to be.

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do when I am starting a movie, when I’m writing a movie or when I have an idea for a film; is, I go through my record collection and just start playing songs, trying to find the personality of the movie, find the spirit of the movie. Then ‘boom’, eventually I’ll hit one, two or three songs or one song in particular, oh this will be a great opening credit song.” — Quentin Tarantino

Other people, I told myself as I drank more and more, were boring. They didn’t have full and interesting and dirty and exciting lives, like mine. They were so suburban. They couldn’t possibly understand me. They didn’t feel what I felt.

What a relief that my lover was on my side and could see through it all. How wonderful that he could see through life’s smokescreen with me to the truth of my needs. How grateful I should be, for the fact of him.

This year, I have switched jobs. Being at a larger company with engineers from multiple backgrounds I was taken by surprise by the fact that although every one of my peers is certainly extremely bright, most of them carried misconceptions about how to best exploit the performance of modern storage technology leading to suboptimal designs, even if they were aware of the increasing improvements in storage technology.

As I reflected about the causes of this disconnect I realized that a large part of the reason for the persistence of such misconceptions is that if they were to spend the time to validate their assumptions with benchmarks, the data would show that their assumptions are, or at least appear to be, true.

I could feel my husband retreat, relent, and finally give up on me. We both slept, tearful and broken. In the morning, I got up late and said perfunctory goodbyes to my family, telling them perfunctory lies about where I was going. I could hardly be bothered to lie at all. I could hardly be bothered with anything. I just could not be bothered anymore.

I knew, even as I was speaking, that nothing I said was true or even made sense. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was that I was saying the words at all and that with every word I spat at him, I was ripping a jagged, vicious hole in the beautiful shell we had built over years together around our love, our shared life, our family.