Hi everyone! It’s another post not really anything at all to do with WoW, thank you very much, but this is my blog and I’ll write about whatever the devil I want to write about and you can just deal with it. Or not read it. I’ll understand.
Today was A Day. At the temp hell where I’ve now been for over a month, oh my God, I had no idea I could tolerate that sort of shit for so long and I think it’s a new record for me so there’s that. (Did I mention I am throwing out the rules of grammar or whatever for this post because apparently when I get frazzled I don’t want to think about commas or making my run on sentences run on in the brick walls of aggressive periods and editing? Nor do I care about making sense, as I think that last sentence proves pretty well.)
So there’s the temp job and the complete and utter pointlessness of it all is driving me batshit. And the pointlessness has now come FULL CIRCLE and I am trapped in the middle of that circle and there is no way out just now. Someone please send help. And wine.
My jumbled narrative starts here
About a month ago, Kooky McRacistpants sent me a whole slew of emails. This had the advantage of making my work email address good for something other than boring announcements about how the general fucked-upness of that whole city block will make it so there is no water in the building at 9pm (when who should care about that, really, other than maybe the janitorial staff?). The slew of emails from Kooky were emails she forwarded to me that had all come to her from another office. They all say things like: OH HEY THIS PERSON IS DEAD SO STOP SENDING HIM CHECKS FOR $5.63 EVERY MONTH AND MAYBE SINCE HE DIED BACK IN 2002 WE SHOULD HAVE STOPPED SENDING THEM A WHILE AGO.
And that whole all CAPS thing isn’t me being angry about this email content, oh no. That is how these emails to Kooky arrive from some office full of alleged people in some other state. Anyhow, I got these emails and I had to print them out (sigh) and then copy/paste some information from them (like the person who had died and that he had died AND SO STOP WITH THE CHECK SENDING ALREADY, I MEAN SERIOUSLY, WHAT THE HELL IS A DEAD GUY GOING TO DO WITH ALL THAT MONEY?) into a database program that makes Access look super awesome and efficient (yes) and then write down the number of the issue on the printed email and then take the whole stack of papers ALLLLLLLLL the way down one row of cubicles (so, past three other cubes) and then make three rights and give them all to some guy whose parents gave him a totally pretentious name.
That was all a month ago. I got all those papers back recently (plus some others from… somewhere… I don’t ask questions because I’ve noticed a tendency on the parts of these people to give me nonsensical and often contradictory answers) and I got to tear out the staples and collate them for scanning so that all this information could be retrieved electronically. Which, yay, but also if they start as emails and are saved into a database to boot, I just don’t understand why they cannot just stay emails for their whole lives. I don’t understand why I cannot just copy the information needed into the database and then forward the email again to Pretentiously-Spelled-Name Guy with like a little note that this email corresponds to issue number blah de blah blah.
Then once he was done with the email maybe he could save his comments or whatever in a little text file? And it could be saved somewhere on a server as a whole like electronic folder with the issue number being the name of the folder to allow for easy retrieval? Maybe?
Accountants must hate trees. They’re the reason resto druids can’t have nice things.
But hey, what the hell does a poop flinging temp monkey know? Nothing. (I do not actually throw poop but the idea has its own attractions when Sports Guy 1 who sits on the other side of the wall from me gets to talking to Sports Guy 2 who comes from elsewhere and they start talking about soccer even though they clearly have no fucking idea what the rules of the game are and I deduced this when they were trying to puzzle out the offsides rule and how it related to offsides in hockey (which makes no. fucking. sense. in and of itself). Now, I have no idea about hockey and you won’t catch me talking about it like I do because that is one way in which I am not a Pretentious Twit, but I do know soccer and NO IT IS NOT OFFSIDES IF THE OTHER TEAM PASSES THE BALL AT ALL ON YOUR TEAM’S SIDE OF THE FIELD. SORRY.)
Anyhow. I spent all damn day today scanning the papers and then checking to make sure whichever idiot had entered the data into the database and written down the issue number hadn’t gotten wildly stupid along the way and entered anything incorrectly. And today the idiot might have been me from a month ago! In fact, past me did very well and didn’t cock anything up although at one point I saw something from Kooky that appeared to be throwing me under the bus for an error and a closer read proved that it was that the alleged person from the other office in the other state had sent multiple copies of something and some needed to be processed and some needed to be ignored so what Kooky did was make like 5 copies of all of it and appended three more pages to each copy and those all got processed today, so…. yeah.
I have a really difficult time giving a damn. So far as I can tell, no one else in the whole place really cares about getting anything done, what with the all befuddled conversations about soccer and the McRacist specials and the occasional driveby I get from any one of the dozens of people that see a temp and think: Oh, goody, a place to dump all these onerous tasks I don’t want to do and haven’t done in three to seven years. This will give me more time to be racist and stupid regarding offsides!
And then? Then they fucking patronize me for being so good at scanning papers like it requires anything other than some patience and at least a remnant of a work ethic.
So that’s been the last several weeks of my life and today, something in me just snapped a little. I don’t want to be at a job where I have to dress up in stupid suity type clothes and uncomfortable shoes and then sit at a desk for eight hours with only an occasional trip around the corner to give Pretentious Guy another few stacks of paper. I don’t really want any sort of office job and I don’t care how close I am to being 30, I don’t have the mindset for that sort of so-called professional environment. It just isn’t anywhere in my ambitions and never was.
The thing that is killing me is that I really want a blue collar sort of job. I had one once before and I loved everything about it. My hands were torn up, I sweated like a goddamn pig in the summer when the floor was hot or when I had to work with a particularly lazy co-worker and I am pretty sure I developed some sort of bizarre addiction to paper dust but I loved that job so much that it was like going to play. And those fools fucking paid me for it.
The wall of text doesn’t end so here is an arbitrary header
Yeah, I’m totally whining here about silly problems, but they’re my silly problems and all of this is compounded by the fact that this shitty temp job is all I have right now and otherwise I am just spinning my wheels with the sending of applications to other jobs and damn it, it’s almost June now which means I have been without the sort of solidity I just really fucking like having in my life for nearly six months now. And not only is it a mystery as to when At and I will be able to afford buying a house and getting all of our stuff (which is most of our possessions), it is also a mystery as to what we will do in a month and a half when our temporary lease here is up. Sure, we could just buy a smaller house than what we would like, or we could try to find a cheaper house that is in dire need of a blowtorch and a sledgehammer to make it livable, but you know, it’s pretty hard to want to do either thing when one of us is commuting an hour in one direction and one is commuting 45 minutes the other direction and God only knows how long my commute will last and where I’ll end up next.
The uncertainty is killing me. This is what I am saying. That and the whole open ended crappy temp job thing. I hate it, but we sort of really need the money or else I’ll be reduced to possibly selling one of At’s kidneys on the black market. Or I might have to give up even my cheap wine. Of those two things, it is more likely that At will be waking up in a tub full of ice one of these days and I love him, I do, so I don’t really want to see that happen.
(In parenthetical land where there is a lot less hyperbole, it’s not really as dire as all of that, obviously, or I wouldn’t have a WoW subscription, let alone access to the Internet or this fancy treadmill I am walking on right this very minute. But, y’know,this job could end any day now and we do have to figure out some other place to live by mid-July and I am really not having any sort of luck in getting a more permanent job and I am even applying to the suity desk jobs I so loathe, and let’s not even get into how when we were packing I was all naive and happy and way too fucking optimistic and figured I could live for a few months on a seriously reduced wardrobe and as a result 75% of my clothes and 95% of my warmer weather clothes are still in the Midwest and I am not and it pretty much sucks to try to stretch such a limited wardrobe as far as I have had to and to not feel like I can even splurge more than a very little and get some new things. We are still in parenthetical land where there is very little hyperbole, and I am telling you now that I have nearly cried over these facts and I don’t CARE about clothes and I try really hard not to cry, especially over silly things. So, yeah. Rawr and so forth.)
In which you realize this really was a giant waste of your time
So there you have it. These are the thoughts that have been circling through my demented mind in between all the pretending to be a Real Live Adult and the general eyerolling and what the fuckery that is inspired by the books on tape I am still wading through while at Shitty Temp Job.
No point to this, not at all, not even a little. But between the catharsis that a good written out rant always brings me and the exertion of trying to write and not fall over on the treadmill, I feel better. I feel like I can face tomorrow. Which is excellent because as far as I know I don’t get random days in the middle of the week off with pay.