56 posts tagged with "Irony"

Old Wang was a senior programmer in the "Fortune to Every Family" project team at a tech company. Simply put, this project was about digitizing and smartening traditional Spring Festival red envelopes. This year's task was particularly heavy, as the company aimed to completely abandon paper red envelopes and achieve the grand goal of "end-to-end digital red envelopes."

In the office, the sound of keyboards was like the low moans of the winter wind, and everyone's face was etched with the weariness of overnight work. Old Wang pushed up his thick glasses, and the dense code on the computer screen looked like ferocious monsters. The slogan "Fortune to Every Family" was shouted loudly, but he only felt like a cog in the machine, being endlessly cranked.

Old Wang, with a stopwatch in hand, confirmed that he had been working continuously for twelve hours, three minutes, and twenty-seven seconds. He stared at the densely packed code on his computer screen, the jumping characters resembling ants mocking him, never stopping, never tiring.

The news of triple pay for overtime during the Spring Festival was like a shot of adrenaline, piercing the pre-holiday slump in the company's morale. Everyone was like a wound-up toy, mechanically operating in the office. Old Wang was no exception. It wasn't that he didn't yearn to go home, but the temptation of "triple" was just too great. He had to pay off his mortgage, buy gifts for his parents, and enroll his child in tutoring classes; all of which required money, a lot of money.

The elevator doors opened with a "ding," revealing an empty car with only the dim yellow light at the top flickering weakly. Zhou Ming rubbed his bloodshot eyes and stepped inside. Today was the deadline for the launch of the new project, and he had been working overtime for three consecutive days.

In the office, workstations are like neatly arranged tombstones, each marked with a number, accurate to two decimal places. This morning, as sunlight poured like a stream into this concrete jungle, Xiao Wang at station 374 once again stole a glance at station 375 next to him.

Station 375 is always empty.

Li Ming never expected that his casual wish on Taobao would actually come true.

That day after work, he was, as usual, squeezed into the subway, like a sardine in a can. The crowding, the noise, the smell of sweat, and the endless fatigue tormented him day after day. He suddenly had a thought, an absurd thought, but perhaps in this kind of life, absurdity was the only true solace. He opened Taobao and wrote in the wishing pool: I want a bus.

After retiring, Old Wang's only joy was setting off fireworks during the New Year. This year, the policy loosened, with "many places changing from bans to limits," allowing the lighting of fireworks. Old Wang was as happy as a child, and he asked someone to bring him several boxes of "sky rockets" from the countryside. He neatly stacked the fireworks in the living room, touching them several times a day, as if caressing his precious treasures.

On New Year's Eve, Old Wang put on a brand-new Tang suit and excitedly rushed downstairs, ready to put on a show. In the open space downstairs, some people were already setting off fireworks here and there. Some lit "star clusters," and some lit "little bees," the crackling sounds sporadic, but it always felt like something was missing. Old Wang took out a "sky rocket," carefully placed it on the ground, and lit the fuse. With a "whoosh," the firework shot straight into the sky, exploding with a "bang," the colorful light illuminating the night sky and the wrinkles on Old Wang's face.

Old Wang was about to go downstairs to buy groceries when he received the letter. The envelope was a cheap white one, with a blurred red heart printed in the middle, along with some crooked cartoon words: "Thank you for your charitable donation!" He suspiciously opened the letter. Inside was a printed piece of paper with graceful Song typeface, which read: "Dear Mr. Wang, thank you for your generosity in donating a valuable ten yuan to the underprivileged students of our school. Your kindness is like a beacon, illuminating the path we tread. All teachers and students of our school hereby express our sincerest gratitude! To reciprocate your kindness, we are awarding you the following 'exclusive' honorary title: 'The Magnanimous, Yet Miserly Great Philanthropist'!"

Old Wang's hand trembled, and he almost dropped the letter. What was this? Subtle sarcasm? He stared at the bolded words "Magnanimous, Yet Miserly Great Philanthropist," feeling like his chest was constricted. He donated ten yuan to show his support for his daughter's school's "charity donation" event; he didn't actually intend to be a philanthropist. How did donating a small amount become a sin?

The cold wind was like sandpaper, ruthlessly chafing Li Ming's cheeks. He tightened his old cotton coat and continued his arduous trek on the mountain path. With only three days left until the New Year, he had to get back to his hometown before New Year's Eve, no matter how difficult it was to buy train tickets, no matter how hard this mountain road was to traverse.

Li Ming was a junior at a regular university in Wuhan. This time, he hadn't been able to buy a direct train ticket home and had to transfer several times. The last part of his journey required him to hike through a mountain forest. He knew that there were wild boars in the area during the winter, and the villagers had set up some electric fences to hunt them, so he was extra careful.

Old Wang, in his forties, had been working at a company of moderate size for almost twenty years. He was like an old machine that had been running for years, following the routine day after day, a cog screwed tightly into his position. He considered himself to have seen through the tricks of the workplace, regarding promotions and pay raises as mere fleeting clouds. Only the year-end bonus was the real hope that could revitalize his old engine.

This year's year-end bonus was distributed in a rather special way. Not as cold, hard numbers, but as "surprises" packed in cardboard boxes. Old Wang received a heavy box, with a red paper label that read "Year-end welfare, wishing you a Happy New Year". He carefully carried the box, as if he was holding a box of gold.

Xiao Ai’s nail salon is located in the most bustling district of the CBD. Every day, she is like a diligent gardener, using colorful paints and sparkling decorations on the small plot of land that is the fingertip to create secret gardens for urban women. But recently, she has discovered some uninvited guests growing in her own "garden" - small, flesh-colored, like newly-emerged flower buds, yet somewhat grotesque. The doctor told her that they were warts caused by the HPV virus.

She was puzzled. She wears gloves and disinfects rigorously every day. How could this have happened? She began to pay attention to her customers. The urban white-collar workers who came and went, with slender or thick fingers, dressed in fashionable or simple attire. In their conversations, they would occasionally mention recent physical discomfort, or small bumps appearing on the edges of their nails. Xiao Ai's heart skipped a beat, a feeling of unease rising in her.