diatribe, interrupted
Went out to the loading dock and cried today. I am a piece of bloody meat that has been dropped into a tankful of emaciated piranhas. I am a menstruating teenage surfer in shark-infested waters. I am that hapless goblin in Lord of the Rings who gets torn to pieces and devoured by his fellow soldiers. And, as I am lying here with my internal organs wrapped around my neck, I’m berated for not being more productive. I am snapped at by the fussy queen receptionist. I am guilt-tripped by the marketing director. And just waiting - hiding behind the blinking MSG light - are over a hundred voicemails and emails from teachers who are frantic about something. They are panicking about this ticket or that ticket and they are withdrawing their reservation because it took me three days to get back to them. Maybe they’re cancelling it altogether because they are afraid of war and don’t want to send their children to the shadow of the soon-to-be-destroyed-by-nuclear-warfare space needle. Every couple of minutes, a flash of bright light comes from the Nameless Center for Science next door, and each time I am certain something is blowing up. I am right on the fucking brink and if one more person says one more negative or condescending thing to me I will either burst into tears or I will wring their self-righteous stuffed-shirt mouth-breathing cake-sniffing dunkin-donut-eating jizz-mopping ugly-haircut-wearing fashion-victim slobber-pocket asshat necks. If I wasn’t already on my way out of this pathetic excuse for a job, I would quit after this anyway. I don’t deserve to be treated like this. I don’t get paid enough to put up with this bullshit.
A couple of weeks ago, I had a great dream. See, Ida and I have these really cute matching skirts. We also have these sort of matching fat-boy hooded sweatshirts, and these sort of matching shoes. I had a dream that we dressed up in our matching clothes and got our picture taken together at some cheesy mall portrait studio. Apparently, Sjet recently acquired a fat-boy hooded sweatshirt. Molly may have one as well. Portrait studio, here we come. I don’t think you’re ready for this jelly.
“You know what the Python boys always say.”
“‘Always look on the bright side of life’?”
“No…’Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.’”
Mmm, Sliding Doors. I think it’s high time I watched that again.
You said, “Asshat”!
Something I’ve never been able to figure out: why do so many people who run admin offices at non-profits always seem to be borderline psychotics? Does the non-profit field just naturally attract the clinically insane? Why do they treat their employees (or at least a certain select few, mainly the artistic ones) like old dog vomit? Are they secretly jealous? I wish I knew the answer, sorry for your sake I don’t.
The only thing I can suggest that might make you feel better is to get really, really drunk at lunch, but that doesn’t solve the problem — unless of course you really do want to get fired, which at this point sounds like it would almost be a relief.
Comte-
Non-profits do indeed attract people who, while not always insane, are certainly outside of normal functioning. The same could probably be said of any alternative cluster. Disclosure: the author works at a non-profit. I think there are two causes: 1) lack of profit, or “no money makey crazy”, and 2) those who choose an un-normal lifestyle are probably un-normal people, for example, oh, me.
Freesia-
Way back in my head - no, on the other side - yeah, in that corner - there’s a tiny candlelight vigil just for you.
yay! No money makey crazy. Candles good. Fire good. Mmmmm, fire.
(I’m such a pyro.)
*Sniff!* Do I smell something burning?
Serious part - So sorry to hear ‘Lish. You don’t deserve the shit you’re getting from that job. I’m just glad it won’t be too much longer for you babe.
Silly part - Just add some phat shades and you’ll have photo perfection. Think of the ripe, unmined humor value of the families and kids in their formal clothes you could terrorize into having Calvin-esque freaky pictures.