Suicide’s Slave

I think I have just about enough as I can take from my job, perchance Reader, you relate to the feeling I am most certainly sure. Those giant sterling silver tweezers re-appear to pull out the increasingly copious white hairs sprouting out across my scalp like weeds in a flowerbed of black dahlias.

My ‘red’ flagged Outlook mail items presently disappear into the realms of the bottomlessness of my laptop screen, the scroll bar reaches into an infinity of yawning, elastic space. Emails flood in each morning and remain unactioned glaring at me with putrid static for my lacklustre desire to no longer resolve and file said items away into their new homes within a millisecond of their unrequested and uninvited appearance, which used to be a regular passion prior to the loss of feeling in my brain.

I give up. I detest the very nature of my job. I abhor the useless futility of my role. How many times can I think it, and still, on a daily basis, I reverberate the same curiously monotonous thoughts inside my head procrastinating silently as I attempt to break out of my suicidal tendency to slit my repetitive stress injured wrists with plastic paperclips and halal my throat with the 30cm ruler threatening me with its transparency, each centimetre poised to measure out each drop of thankful blood as I sink lifelessly into the cotton-wool that is my chair whilst the witness that is my desk tidy, gazes on with nobody to operate the writing utensils for a witness statement, or two.

Is this my goal in life? Is this the best utilisation of my ever-expanding mind which has nearly lost all ability to reach its full potential having fornicated with the shiny laptop screen for the last eight months? To obtain countless, pointless pieces of paper on a drab daily basis chasing the same international contacts desperately urging for urgent project completion: “I’m sorry to trouble you”, really?? Am I actually really sorry to trouble you?

Let us dissect. I think you will find (and it is quite easily found), the answer is “No”. If you pulled your finger out and completed the project thus introduced to you in the first instance via a prompt and professional manner, I would not be sorry to trouble you as I would not have the need to trouble you and therefore I would have no need to be sorry for troubling you, let alone feign apology for elements that are not even remotely my fault. I am apologising for your ineptness and for your short list of capabilities in order that you may assist me, is that even common business sense? YOU should be apologising for your own ineptness, it’s your fault!! I am not inept, I am perfect. I can DO MY job, you make me choose NOT to do my job for the sole reason that you are USELESS.

The demoralising moral of the story is, never give up on your instinct, follow your dream to the ends of each myriad of double rainbows, never ever (ever) give up, or the conclusion of your life will be a hell-hole, several times inhumanely larger than the worst hell-hole you could ever perceive to even slightly imagine.

ink is free, so...

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