Alright, let’s open the F12 Developer Tools, inspect this element and see what function this is calling. Found it. AJAX call, returns a JSON string. ASPX file. Here’s what I’m looking for. Why does it return the formatted email here? Why not use a preset? No time to redo this, have to find the source of this error.
Why is nothing sending with my email?
Parse JSON string, looks good. Debug mode, what are my variables set to when this is called? Everything checks out. No errors. No empty objects.
I take another sip of the now-cold black coffee sitting on top of a pile of orange sticky notes, the bottom of which is an exact circle perfectly fit into the center of the square note. It’s so perfect, its radius matches half the length of one side of the square, to the millimeter.
I’m wasting my time here, the error has to be in the code behind.
I take my glasses off, wipe them clean. Spray them, wipe them again. I blow the dust out of my keyboard. The control feels good. There are no bugs in my physical interaction, the code in my brain allows me to interact with these objects and control their organization, their appearance, their usefulness, no debugging required.
Version control. Who touched this last?
I made it. I don’t even remember my logic. I’m wasting my time. I lean back in my chair, indicating subconsciously that this is no longer under my control. It’s almost as if the last vertebrae hitting the back of the chair lets out a faint sound, a tiny cry of helplessness.
I bet it’s a user error. I bet it’s a problem with the server. I bet, maybe, the processor is running so quickly it’s occupying the message after the send request is done. None of those are reasonable assumptions.
Open Fiddler, check every call, pore over every RAW, JSON, Web View, it’s here somewhere.
Why did I choose this awful profession? I have no control. Why is this issue even relevant? The user can just copy and paste the contents and send it that way, this tool is just easier. But it isn’t easier for me.
I am no detective, why should I be confined to investigate constantly and never find the culprit? At least a detective can accuse, point at something and have others ring in agreement. At least there is semantic leeway, objective consideration, here there is only right, wrong, 1, 0, output, error.
Seriously, I am running in circles for a half-hour to fix something so MENIAL. It’s as if I got a degree in failure, to be imprisoned in a mindless maze of haystacks and needles, each needle smaller and rustier than the last, leaving your finger bloody every time you find it.
Why work even? The forty years I spend doing this will amount to a cycle of small promotions and an endless quest for the next vacation or weekend.
Line 5. Even the strings. Especially look at the strings.
What even is the point of living? You learn a skill that makes you miserable, you use it for half your life, you explore after you’ve lost your fitness for exploration, you die.
I notice I haven’t eaten in six hours. Why eat, though? What’s the point if
“Messagee,” inside a string, blended like lettuce in a salad, now standing out like the last crouton; I can notice nothing else.
I sit up, coffee cup to its rightful place, glasses back up my nose, pull keyboard to center. Click. Backspace. Ctrl+s. Smirk. Alt+Tab. Shift+F5. Shake my head left and right as the smirk grows. Test the feature. Bug is gone. Alt+Tab. Rebuild Solution. Check out. Check in. It’s a full-blown smile now.