tired 2

Every time I think about my office, my heart starts to panic. Odd rhythms, missed palpitations, full on panic attack.

Every single time. There I am, outside, enjoying a cup of coffee and a good book, and the knowledge that I have to call some jackass back about his fucking voicemail (for the seventh time this month) or some idiot who knows exactly how to fix his own problem, he just wants to someone to come out and do it for him (on the weekend! for free!) and my heart starts trying to kill me.

I think it knows I’d be better off than continuing with this fuckshit of a company.

I was hoping things would change after we got rid of those lazy, deceitful jackholes, but since head office has decided eliminating four people (who admittedly weren’t doing much) and combining all their jobs in mine (who was already overloaded, and let’s face it, even though those idiots weren’t doing much, they were still doing something, and there were certainly a whole lot of things they were supposed to be doing that just weren’t getting done), and then allowing me to hire one single frontline guy (after making me suffer for over a month) who can’t really assist me with the things I need assistance on, well, let’s just say things aren’t going well.

If only my heart would finish the job.

I don’t even get paid well for this shit. And the afterhours stuff? It’s fucking free. If I didn’t have a mortgage to pay, I’d have walked out yesterday.

Target: 600 words
Written: 499 words, novella: The Mungk

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