» Office Inventions: Bullet Vision

There are just so many mysteries in this universe. For instance, what literary mobster invented the bullet point? Where is this Mickey Spillane of punctuation, because I’d like to ask him a few questions. Not to sound all Andy Rooney, but how is it that so many people feel that they can’t read something unless it’s been chopped into easily digested chunks? Do you need me to chew your lunch for you, too?! Bullet points aren’t always the answer, folks. Exhibit the first—here’s an Emily Dickinson poem entitled “Hope” is the thing with feathers:

“Hope” is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—

And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—

I’ve heard it in the chilliest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.

And here it is again, rendered in bullet points.

Hope is:
• Basically a bird that can’t sing very well.
• Like a really loud, warm blanket.
• Pretty undemanding; enjoys travel.

Are you inspired? Swept away? Is your soul, like, totally shored up and full of possibility? Well, if you answered yes to any of those questions, hold on to your lederhosen. For those who prefer to see things in black and white, I’ve invented Bullet Vision. Pop these babies on and suddenly, the world has been hard-boiled down to its most essential information.

This is just the start, my friend. If this is the roaring success I think it’s going to be, I’ll be working on a corneal implant that lets you view the world as a giant Excel spreadsheet. Or perhaps some sort of brain surgery that renders all unnecessary adjectives invisible! I won’t stop until life is a thin gruel of information, with even the tiniest raisins of beauty plucked out and flicked away.

If the thought of this disturbs you, just remember—all of my inventions are hypothetical and tongue-in-cheek. And you will pry long-form writing out of my cold, dead, lace-gloved hands, mister. Yes, there’s still hope for the written word.

And that hope is why you can still:
• Listen to that crummy-voiced bird.
• Wrap yourself in that noisy duvet.
• Take a nice, relaxed little trip.