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Tag: Anger/Rage/Fury



I had a breakdown at work today.

The people in DB conversions screwed up a database, and then when I resubmitted, I got a condescending e-mail. Mind you, this is not uncommon when coming from this person.

I was upset.  I tried hard to calm down, but couldn’t

And I yelled at my boss out of frustration. I told her that I can’t deal with his attitude. That the problem needs to be fixed. That I’m not being treated fairly.

And her boss was in earshot. I got a deathlook from him.

Best-case scenario now is that I get a writeup. Worst case scenario is termination. What will probably happen is that I’ll be demoted to a tech… someone who can “handle their temper” will move to my position.

If I’m demoted or fired… I have nothing.

Maybe I’ll move back to Vegas. Maybe I’ll move somewhere else entirely. Maybe I’ll just roll over and take it, like I have for so many others before. Maybe I’ll find work somewhere else. Maybe I’ll drink myself into a stupor, praying for the sweet release of death.

I’ve been trying so hard, but I’ve hit bottom again.

Maybe hitting bottom and never climbing back up is my destiny.

Late-Night Bitching

Late-Night Bitching

Do you know how unsettling it is to wake up and notice that the sheets (and your back) are covered in blood?

Or your pillows?

Or your pants when you wash them?


The skin whatever isn’t healing. In fact, it’s getting worse. It’s killing my self-confidence. I look like a damned lizard. Or a leper. Or something horrible, at any rate. Dead skin flies from my body like a foul snow. Shaving is hell. The mere act of moving opens up the dried-out places. And the Dermatologist has no idea what it is or what’s causing it.

I have an appointment next week, but I’m seriously considering going to see another one– maybe one that will do more than “that looks bad” and inject me with steroids.

I just don’t want to itch anymore. I want to look normal. I don’t want it to hurt and crack my skin open when I so much as move my neck or walk. Is that too much to ask?

But, is that the only shitty thing that I’m suffering lately? Hells no. The Powers that Be have determined that moving me upstairs– back to, approximately, where I used to sit– is going to drastically boost my productivity. I’m going to be sitting right next to my boss. So she can lean over and ask me about issues that I know exactly fuck-all about and demand answers from me anyway.

The mere fact that they said that it was to “improve my productivity” is a slap to my face. Every time I’ve asked any of the higher-ups how I was doing and what I could improve on, I was reassured that I was doing “fine” and that I had absolutely nothing to worry about. Obviously, if you’ve got to move me… there’s a problem. Why wasn’t it addressed earlier? Why wasn’t I given the opportunity to better myself? I just felt hurt as I moved my crap into the new cube.

The other people in my department (who I consider friends… even if sometimes things they do or how they act can be aggravating at times) now can only communicate with me about issues with our offices that move onto the developers via E-mail or telephone. The elimination of face-to-face contact is one of our biggest problems as it is… E-mail can be ignored, phone calls blown off, and all of them misinterpreted. When I have a problem and I can talk to someone about it face-to-face, it demands immediate action, or at least some kind of response. There’s just… contact there.

And now the Managerial Drones are removing it. Removing me from my friends… who, despite how shitty I feel, at least reassure me with their mere presence. Try to help me. That sort of thing. And I do my best to do the same to them.

I try to do my best to do what’s good for the company. Try to make it better. Try to help in whatever way I can.

They can go to hell now. I’m going to do the Peter Gibbons-working-at-Initech thing… I’ll work just hard enough to keep myself from getting yelled at or fired. I’ve got no motivation to go the extra mile.

Screw them.

Having a good day, AND THEN…

Having a good day, AND THEN…

I get home. And check the mail.

Hooray! My data cable for my phone is here!

After working for the better part of an hour to get the driver to install properly, I end up calling Nokia, who promptly inform me (after I describe the cable) that I’ve been sold a cheap Asian knockoff.

Which won’t work with my phone.

I’m trying to talk to the sonofabitch who sold me the cable through EBay. If I don’t get my money– plus shipping — back from this assclown, I’m going to submit a fraud claim against him.