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My peevish angst tastes like coconut.
May. 10th, 2010 01:19 pmI'm still waiting on my last grade in english, despite the term ending last Tuesday, and having turned in my final paper more than a week before that. In addition, today I've been freshly rejected by an erstwhile employer and have patiently listened to my partner wax peevish about his job. Regarding my own--I think if I have to fill out one more effing timesheet that extends into column BB I'm gonna just get in my car and not ever come back.
I've kept my desk cleaned for the last 18 months, you see. The only personal item left to pack is my lunch bowl.
I've kept my desk cleaned for the last 18 months, you see. The only personal item left to pack is my lunch bowl.
I'm sick of the shit economy, sick of forcing myself to do the data entry and endless wanking email circles of this job, sick of sitting on my ass staring at a screen, sick of shutting up because no one wants a cog's opinion, and sick of the balancing act of keeping this ridiculous job by being a diligent idiot. It has health insurance.
I'm the unwashed masses of the underemployed; a career-changer in day-job Limbo, dancing the limbo of trying to raise my sights without prematurely knocking off the ever-lowering bar.
Despite catching up on rest, I'm not adjusting well to the end of the term. Perhaps because of. I had less daily angst about my job when my body was short on sleep and my mind preoccupied with coursework. I could more easily access the automaton mindset of producing bureaucracy. This is what happens when you decide to take your own intellect seriously, when you feed it and free it. It's fucking Cthulhu in your head and you can't stuff it back into R'lyeh because you've seen how the angles are all fucking wrong, man, and the stars don't fucking care about your goddamned TPS reports.
Nota bene for new visitors (hola!): I was going to apologize for the language, but that would be disingenuous. I think carpet f-bombing truly does convey Cthulhu's deep inchoate disregard of your TPS reports.
In other news, I've named my new 20 lb. kettlebell 'Irene'. The kiddo (3.75 years and small for her age) could barely deadlift it a couple inches in the morning--then in the afternoon picked it up and moved it a whole yard. Apparently her brain simply needed to adjust a few calculations re: muscle recruitment and boom! notably effectively stronger. Ask and ye shall receive, baby. Not to be outpaced by the wunderkind, I did a few get-ups yesterday and some swings this morning.
I'm the unwashed masses of the underemployed; a career-changer in day-job Limbo, dancing the limbo of trying to raise my sights without prematurely knocking off the ever-lowering bar.
Despite catching up on rest, I'm not adjusting well to the end of the term. Perhaps because of. I had less daily angst about my job when my body was short on sleep and my mind preoccupied with coursework. I could more easily access the automaton mindset of producing bureaucracy. This is what happens when you decide to take your own intellect seriously, when you feed it and free it. It's fucking Cthulhu in your head and you can't stuff it back into R'lyeh because you've seen how the angles are all fucking wrong, man, and the stars don't fucking care about your goddamned TPS reports.
Nota bene for new visitors (hola!): I was going to apologize for the language, but that would be disingenuous. I think carpet f-bombing truly does convey Cthulhu's deep inchoate disregard of your TPS reports.
In other news, I've named my new 20 lb. kettlebell 'Irene'. The kiddo (3.75 years and small for her age) could barely deadlift it a couple inches in the morning--then in the afternoon picked it up and moved it a whole yard. Apparently her brain simply needed to adjust a few calculations re: muscle recruitment and boom! notably effectively stronger. Ask and ye shall receive, baby. Not to be outpaced by the wunderkind, I did a few get-ups yesterday and some swings this morning.
