I can’t sleep. In the last week, I’ve gotten maybe ten hours of sleep. This, thanks to my fucking job.
Originally, the project I’m on was supposed to be five months long. Two months in, they cancel the project, thanks to gross contract mismanagement, then resurrect it but promise it to be done in one more month, effectively cutting the project time in half, plus dispensing with one and a half people to stay within the new adjusted budget.
Fucking brilliant, you squat-peggers. Did you even look up from your balance sheet to consider what this would mean in actual work terms, you bunch of bean-counting imbeciles? Oh, hey, while you’re at it, why don’t you allow the customer to randomly change specifications and request additional, out-of-scope work without adjusting the ill-conceived timeline. Oh, you already did? Brilliant work, you knee-biting boar bitches.
If that’s not bad enough, now we learn that we need to spend at least two weeks preparing a PowerPoint[less] presentation; that is to say, it’ll take about four hours to actually put together the presentation and the remaining 76 hours to have it reviewed by every asshat with some tangential attachement to this project or who wanders by and sticks his head in, along with his dog and the fleas on the dog. I figure we’ll have five or six reviews and revisions before this presentation is fully vetted, by which time the presentation will have undoubtedly been rescheduled, or the project scope altered yet again.
While you’re at it, why don’t you hold meeting after pointless meeting to suck up the normal workday with pointless inanity so that I have to come in before sunup and leave before sundown in order to accomplish any actual work? Oh, you’ve already planned for that, I see…you pus-filled sebaceous gland of a bad use of protoplasm. You know, I really fucking enjoyed sitting in a three hour long meeting today watching you mumble and bumble and bluster about subjects you have absolutely no grasp on, you bum-pudding eater. And thanks, by the way, for informing us that you and you alone will make recommendations about the analysis and design codes we are going to use, even though you have made it amply clear that you don’t have the San Francisco-pea-soup-foggiest notion on how they work. You stupid shiite.
Oh, and you want me to “escalate my efforts”, “take my work to the next level”, “accelerate this program to the redline”? Do you know–have you looked at the work logs you so pustulently insist we fill out daily–that I’ve been averaging 12 hour days for the last two weeks, you walking talking ass-wiping excuse for a human being? You want me to work more? You think spouting a few buzzwords is going to motivate me to dig this hole any faster, you feebleminded fuckhead?
Oh, and fuck me for all of my apathy still wanting to somehow do a good job even though every task I complete is immediately obsoleted by your changing specifications. This ill-conceived project has been in the shitter from day one, thanks to your selection of the absolutely worst option presented, and is compounded by diving for each progressively crap idea. How is it you can’t hear a word anyone is saying when the entire design group is pointing out how you’ve just yet again further complicated the project to no worthy end? Oh, I’m sorry, is that just a detail? You’re sure we can do it? Of course you are…you don’t need to do shit but stand back and play with your Gantt chart, you illustrious idiot. Why I even give two snaps about your project is beyond me; some lingering influence–the only positive think I ever got from that useless sperm donor who occasionally refers to himself as my father–that one must strive to do the best job even when it’s hopeless and it’s killing you.
Not that I’m doing the best job; between your efforts to hamper me, which couldn’t be more effective if they were intentional, my resentment toward the fact that not one point or suggestion I’ve made has been considered, even though I’ve been proven right virtually every time, the sad, sorry state of our infrastructure and training (oh, and great job, BTW, cutting our training budget by more than half so as to maintain those record profits you are so proud of, you perverted penis pinchers), and my overall couldn’t-care-less-edness.
Thanks to you, my sleep cycle and appetite are all fucked up. Now I spend the night wandering around, closing bars and looking for all-night diners, and being rejected by women all over the state of Southern California. I have to remind myself to eat now. I’m two steps away from shaving my head into a mohawk and wearing an army jacket whereever I go. You and your useless piece of shit job that I’m too chickenshit to quit for fear I’ll never find another and end up dying in a gutter somewhere.
Fuck you, fuck me, fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
This is obviously not one of my better written posts, but at this point, I don’t give a diarrhetic turtle’s asshole. I’m going to go lay in bed now and stare at the ceiling until dawn’s early rays start to poke in through the window, then go back into work and see how you’ve decided to change your mind again, undoing everything I managed to do the day before.
Stranger
