Kill me

As if giving up my entire weekend to do work on my shitty stories wasn’t good enough, I got an e-mail just now from Demure that indicated some frustration on her part that the stories are not in great shape. Further, for one story, she asked if I’d contacted (out there Person X) at (some division or another) on the Cybertechnology Committee for an interview. HUH?!?! They have known for THREE WEEKS what my stories were going to be, and not ONCE did they mention that this committee existed and that people could TALK to me about it?

They always do this to me. Always. Normally, I let it slide because I already had enough interviews, but I have told them for a week that I’ve been struggling and NEVER did I hear a suggestion about what to do to help myself. MOTHERFUCK!

So … my response:

Hi (Demure),

Sorry about the problem with opening the one document and the others not being finalized enough. No, I didn’t think about the cybertechnology committee — again, didn’t realize that we have all these committees. One could only do so much and handle so much stress in two weeks.

I’ve found that I really enjoyed the editorial (i.e., Col. Mustard’s job) part of the process this month infinitely more than the storywriting. Of course, that I managed to even accomplish this much in the space of two weeks is an interesting indicator to me that perhaps I am better fit as a person in charge instead of a mere little writer. Just something to consider as we move onward into next issue.

(Blah blah blah) … attached is the disability piece again (again, not a final form — I took the morning off) and I’ll see what I can do about the rest. I know I have umpteen work-related emails to get answered today as well.


She’s at the office, unfortunately. I’m going in, too — which means that I have officially shaved my legs for NOTHING. But maybe I’ll just be pissed off enough to finish this work, once and for all — migraine or not. And never am I sitting at home all weekend (on a holiday, no less) because of being behind at work. This was disgraceful. And for what? Do I see a promotion or a permanent raise? No, I will probably hear that I didn’t meet their expectations and will always remain a peon. That’s why I threw the jab in there that every other function other than my stupid stories were done. Shame on me for writing five stories and a sidebar. Shame on me for trying to go above and beyond, in addition to crisis control. Shame on me for not turning to Paxil or Prozac like everyone else there so that I can be a good little automaton.

But seriously, shame on me for not being able to really care. There’s a lot to be said about a mind-body connection to everything you do. If you’re leaving your heart at home every day — because it would be stomped on otherwise if it went into work with you — there is a major piece of yourself missing from everything you do. And that only results in an empty victory. So yeah, I will triumph (EVENTUALLY), but the satisfaction will be hollow.

I need to get out of there and follow the dreams that are in the pressure cooker. ‘Cause I’m going to explode, one way or another, and I’d like to channel my energy into a direction that will benefit, not harm, me and everyone standing within 100 yards.

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