| dewy decimal |
2004-04-20 - 5:14 a.m.
My boss, my boss, my boss! Aaaargh!
This is the woman that I find impossible at times to work with, yet impossible to hate. The 5 foot, forty something lady with the one year old kid, doesn't look a day over 30. In front of her G5 from 9am to 10pm with a baby blanket draped over her shoulders, obsessing over little nothings. Having aneurisms over typographic trivia, eating dried ginger and Marie Calendar pot pies.
She sighs, "Dustin, I need to know how serious you are about this job. I would hate to let you go because of the quality of your work."
Bitch, are you fucking for real? I work so fucking hard with this shit-smeared grin on my face everyday until everything is done for $9.00 an hour. I have 5 sales reps, 3 classifieds execs, an office manager, 2 editors, a publisher and you to do bitch-work for...would you call that high volume? Hell motherfucking yeah! Why are you so insanely bent over minor shit, that's what the fucking proofs are for. Fuck you. I feel like I'm always waiting for the other shoe to drop, which is only a matter of time because when thousands of words, lines, and pictures are at your whim everyday, you are bound to have at least one fuck up. You got me flinching 5 hours straight. Do you have any idea how frustrating, deameaning and unrewarding that kind of work is?
On the other hand, where else am I going to find a boss in Hawaii who likes Yo La Tengo and Belle and Sebastian, who owns a copy of Ghost World, and has been the former boss of John Spencer? Where else will I find someone who makes me feel like toad shit and wants me to achieve more than I'm really intrested in?
But to be honest, the problem is not entirely my boss, hell if she weren't my boss I'd probably like her loads. My problem is that she is my boss and there is nothing special I do at my job. It don't give me the room or respect to use the crazy part of my brain that makes me poor, depressed, and creative.
I made an ad for a gay phone sex company today, which I ultimately did not design but merely executed through an extensive list of restrictions. If I had my way, I'd have whipped out my dick and jacked off and jizzed on the glass scanner bed. Then I'd have smashed my lips into that sprayed glob of cum while the scanner scanned and you'd be able to see suggestions of my lips, my teeth, a dim smirk. The copy would read, I want to suck you. I love you. Fuck me.
Oh Mama, I hate my job and I'm so fucking serious when I say that I'm not happy.