Tonight, George and I sat down with an entire package of Oreo cookies and a big freakin' glass of whole milk. That's right. Whole milk and a shitload of America's favorite cookie. I'm dunking George and holding that little muther under till he stops thrashing around.
I'm not really trying to commit suicide by sugar overdose. It takes too long and besides, I really wanna know how LOST turns out. And I didn't eat the whole package. Just ten or fifteen of those creme-filled sandwiches of death.
So what am I doing? Well, I'm either drowning my sorrows in an orgy of lard and sugar, or celebrating the fact that I don't have to go to work tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after that.
Yes, friends, neighbors and people who barely know me -- I am unemployed. Again. "Workforce reduction" is the term they used. Does it really mean that Hewlett Packard is tightening its belt, or is "workforce reduction" just a code word for "we don't want you anymore but we're afraid of wrongful termination lawsuits" ??
The Invisible Man (aka my boss) assured me it was no reflection on my workplace contributions, and so far I know at least one other person who got the ax today. But still..... I've been terminated more than Sarah Conner in all four movies, and I'm pretty freakin' sick of having authorized personnel escort me from the building with a box of my belongings.
It's humiliating to be let go even from a job you loathe. I mean, hell, they could teach a monkey to do what I did, but they'd have to pay the monkey more.
No more WTF Names of the Day. No more Quickie Cubicle Lunch Reviews. On the other hand, I can spend all day posting every whining pathetic thought that passes through my brain, and annoy the shit out of all of you by posting lyrics to whatever song happens to be playing on my iPod at any given moment. ("You Don't Know Me" by Ray Charles.) I can take every stupid quiz and challenge you to do the same, find out what my hip-hop name should be (and invite you to do the same), and send you a million invites to play "My Town" until you unfriend me.
The good news is that I will be paid my regular salary until April 23. That's sixty days of a paycheck until I'm living on peanut butter and jelly. Again. Sixty days until George and I are on our own, alone in a world without health insurance. If diabetes doesn't get me, my bipolar monkey probably will.
Sigh.... I do apologize for the sarcasm and misanthropy of this note. Blame it on George, who's swinging from the ceiling fan at the moment.
I'll be better tomorrow. Probably. Maybe. Oh, who the hell knows. I may just decide to devote the rest of the week to self-pity, misplaced anger and random around-the-clock napping. Next week will be soon enough to launch into abject terror about the future: just in time for my birthday.
I'm not really trying to commit suicide by sugar overdose. It takes too long and besides, I really wanna know how LOST turns out. And I didn't eat the whole package. Just ten or fifteen of those creme-filled sandwiches of death.
So what am I doing? Well, I'm either drowning my sorrows in an orgy of lard and sugar, or celebrating the fact that I don't have to go to work tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after that.
Yes, friends, neighbors and people who barely know me -- I am unemployed. Again. "Workforce reduction" is the term they used. Does it really mean that Hewlett Packard is tightening its belt, or is "workforce reduction" just a code word for "we don't want you anymore but we're afraid of wrongful termination lawsuits" ??
The Invisible Man (aka my boss) assured me it was no reflection on my workplace contributions, and so far I know at least one other person who got the ax today. But still..... I've been terminated more than Sarah Conner in all four movies, and I'm pretty freakin' sick of having authorized personnel escort me from the building with a box of my belongings.
It's humiliating to be let go even from a job you loathe. I mean, hell, they could teach a monkey to do what I did, but they'd have to pay the monkey more.
No more WTF Names of the Day. No more Quickie Cubicle Lunch Reviews. On the other hand, I can spend all day posting every whining pathetic thought that passes through my brain, and annoy the shit out of all of you by posting lyrics to whatever song happens to be playing on my iPod at any given moment. ("You Don't Know Me" by Ray Charles.) I can take every stupid quiz and challenge you to do the same, find out what my hip-hop name should be (and invite you to do the same), and send you a million invites to play "My Town" until you unfriend me.
The good news is that I will be paid my regular salary until April 23. That's sixty days of a paycheck until I'm living on peanut butter and jelly. Again. Sixty days until George and I are on our own, alone in a world without health insurance. If diabetes doesn't get me, my bipolar monkey probably will.
Sigh.... I do apologize for the sarcasm and misanthropy of this note. Blame it on George, who's swinging from the ceiling fan at the moment.
I'll be better tomorrow. Probably. Maybe. Oh, who the hell knows. I may just decide to devote the rest of the week to self-pity, misplaced anger and random around-the-clock napping. Next week will be soon enough to launch into abject terror about the future: just in time for my birthday.
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