I don’t know how it could’ve happened.
After all, I am not one to misspell a passwrod.
But there it is, as ugly a fact as I have ever come across: the password to a document that contains the whole and sum of my work life has been compromised somehow.
I am locked out.
Google informs me that it cannot be hacked, despite what I may have heard around the water cooler.
A friend advises that there are many engaging and lucrative positions in the night-club drug distribution trade available for those not afraid to hustle.
And so I spend the first part of my morning trying to manually recreate the typo – I spend the last part of my morning cutting-and-pasting the 418 permutations of the original password, courtesy of Google, into an angry, blinking screen that reminds me, 418 times, that the password I have supplied is not correct, and perhaps I need to verify that the CAPS lock is off?
Is the CAPS lock off?
Why I oughta…
The Help Desk takes on a most unHelpful manner. “Well why was it password protected in the first place,” he mutters.
Well I dunno, Help Desk. I guess to protect it, with a password, from marauders, hell-bent-and-data-bound? From eager, Excel-based barbarians, paid by competitors to determine whether or not I’ve adequately staffed the right number of garbinmashers to keep our harmenfletchers in line?
The truth is that it doesn’t matter why it was password-protected, does it?
The fact is that without that document, I will be required, per the guidelines I signed during “onboarding”, to fall upon my departmentally supplied pen, spilling my blood, and possibly my coffee, in an act of contrition.
By God, I’ll go down fighting!