|Because this blog has earned me exactly $40|
in the last five-and-a-half years.
Most of the time my IRL job is pretty sweet. Regular hours, doing stuff I'm good at, and plenty of time to sneak looks at squirrel pictures throughout the day.
But once in a while things get very hectic and VERY STRESSFUL.
|This. My day was this.|
So we have 22 reports due to a very demanding client next week. Well, the client isn't demanding; The client's lawyers are demanding. And approximately 246 of them have decided to descend upon these 22 reports and crawl up their asses with a microscope.
They've decided that the hundreds of identical reports we've submitted to them in the past - that have been perfectly acceptable, mind you - in fact contained egregious errors. Errors that must be corrected in this latest group of 22 reports, or, you know...chaos or sodomy in the streets or some damn thing.
And all these requests for edits and changes and corrections are landing in my email. Of course, it is way above my pay grade to say, yep, everybody change their reports right now.
The person who needs to nip this shit in the bud - or kiss the client's ass and then bend over - is my sort-of-boss, The Homunculus.
So why isn't he responding to the tidal waves of email instructions coming from the Client from Hell?
Because he decided that the week before 22 reports are due was the perfect time to sit on his ass in a booth at a trade show in another city.
Making sure to inform us, his beleaguered staff, that he would unavailable to answer emails during the three days of the trade show.
Unspoken P.S.: So hey, Chuck, I know you make half what I make and get zilch respect from anybody in this company. But see that bus? *Toss*
|C'mon, get happy.|
I found so many ways to not answer a question today.
I felt sick to my stomach by the time 5:00 rolled around. (Yeah, like I'm working overtime to solve this fucking problem.)
So glad it's Friday.
|Maybe not quite this glad. But, you know, pretty happy.|
On Monday The Homunculus will be back in the office. And I'll be like:
Because I'd rather have my face bitten off by rabid marmosets than have my tombstone read, "She was good at business."
But...I mean, do you see why I need to get a publishing deal for my freaking book already?