You know that whole shit they sell in pseudo-spiritual neo-hippy self help books about you getting the vibes you give out into the world? Well it's wrong. I just got another call this morning about a job that I applied for two months ago, back when I was this close to stuffing my CV in an atom gun and shooting out its gazillion particles at the part-time job world hoping one would stick, and I had to tell them I can't take it right now because I'm sitting my finals and asked if I could call back after the 10th. Well I can't call back after the 10th, because even though I'm doing this to keep my options open, I've already decided to take an unpaid internship I care about. This triggered another one of my familiar yelling at the ceiling episodes as I threw my head back, glared at the chandelier and let my vocal cords discover their inner Zeus as I shouted "STOP CALLING ME WITH JOBS WHEN I'VE DECIDED TO TAKE AN UNPAID INTERNSHIP, IT HURTS! WHY COULDN'T YOU GRANT ME A CALLBACK WHEN I WAS WILLING TO FAN A SULTAN'S SWEATY ASS FOR DOUGH?"
Which leads me to another job-related rant I've been bottling in since 4 am, when I decided to reply to the work e-mail I've been dreading in an unfortunate middle-of-the-night random awakening (BIG MISTAKE!): There's a special place in hell designed for bosses who make you re-write or re-design because you can't read minds. Here's the punch line, I'm both an aspiring writer and graphic designer, so you could say I pulled the short end of the stick, twice, on a cosmic-scaled Titanic-styled ballot.
You see, the art of writing professional work e-mails can roughly be described as the art of crafting insults. You're either fuming with medieval/neanderthal-ic rage that you're forced to dilute and formulate into a pleasant insult-free e-mail that does the job of getting the point through without grazing your boss's sorry epidermis with shrapnel, or you were picked for a vicious tango where the winner is the one that offends the other without having it register as offensive material in gracious power play, the metronome ticks away an impossible rhythm as you're forced to learn the delicate art otherwise known to the women species as small talk. It's a lot like learning how to be a woman, and I had to dig, deep down, into that untapped part of myself where an angular-limbed, make-up choked woman in stilettos was hiding under a couple of comics and discarded Cheetos bags.
I've had a lot of practice with that unholy part of the game, and I had to learn the hard way, by trial and error that cost me my job, health and took away countless hours of sleep that could have added inches to my height that is now horribly lacking on the hobbit-human comparison chart. It still, however, pisses me off, and that anger is soothing because it reminds me that I haven't quite sold my soul to the white-collared corporate overlord yet. That's the only silver lining to this Loki-shooting apocalyptic cloud of doom that I can think of. You could say I'm selling organs to the highest bidder, but my soul's still there, and it's kicking.
I wanna hide in a pillow fort and re-read Harry Potter. Rory, out.
Which leads me to another job-related rant I've been bottling in since 4 am, when I decided to reply to the work e-mail I've been dreading in an unfortunate middle-of-the-night random awakening (BIG MISTAKE!): There's a special place in hell designed for bosses who make you re-write or re-design because you can't read minds. Here's the punch line, I'm both an aspiring writer and graphic designer, so you could say I pulled the short end of the stick, twice, on a cosmic-scaled Titanic-styled ballot.
You see, the art of writing professional work e-mails can roughly be described as the art of crafting insults. You're either fuming with medieval/neanderthal-ic rage that you're forced to dilute and formulate into a pleasant insult-free e-mail that does the job of getting the point through without grazing your boss's sorry epidermis with shrapnel, or you were picked for a vicious tango where the winner is the one that offends the other without having it register as offensive material in gracious power play, the metronome ticks away an impossible rhythm as you're forced to learn the delicate art otherwise known to the women species as small talk. It's a lot like learning how to be a woman, and I had to dig, deep down, into that untapped part of myself where an angular-limbed, make-up choked woman in stilettos was hiding under a couple of comics and discarded Cheetos bags.
I've had a lot of practice with that unholy part of the game, and I had to learn the hard way, by trial and error that cost me my job, health and took away countless hours of sleep that could have added inches to my height that is now horribly lacking on the hobbit-human comparison chart. It still, however, pisses me off, and that anger is soothing because it reminds me that I haven't quite sold my soul to the white-collared corporate overlord yet. That's the only silver lining to this Loki-shooting apocalyptic cloud of doom that I can think of. You could say I'm selling organs to the highest bidder, but my soul's still there, and it's kicking.
I wanna hide in a pillow fort and re-read Harry Potter. Rory, out.
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