This is all incredibly (funny, and) poignant, and, as a programmer, I agree. But any career has its level of trimming Satan's pubes, and I'm really happy to be trimming my share.
The smell of the air conditioner wall unit at my mother's old house. Musky. They were kept out in the garage, and my dad has no sense of smell. He would just put them in the windows and turn them on.
When I came home from school and got hit with the cold air, the smell, I knew it was summer. Yeah, sure, there's probably a fungus in my brain that drives me towards the highest points I can find to release my spores, but, damn, it smelled like freedom.
The Charge Of The Light Brigade by Alfred, Lord Tennyson!
It's been my mantra and my battlecry for the past few years now. Love it.