Poor Me Party
I wrote this last week amidst a day in the angst of PMS, the confoundingly disturbed behaviour of a coworker, and a general air of malcontent. I was going to just delete it . . . but heaven forbid I deprive my readers of a little gritty reading material and a glimpse into the tortured soul of a self-professed writer . . .
Ever have a day where you just cannot help but feel sorry for yourself?
You are living in a city that you don’t like.
While you were busy staying in the city you detest simply because you used to have a job you LOVED, your friends selfishly went about living their own lives; getting married; having babies; getting divorced; moving away; getting into new train-wreck relationships.
Then you were laid off from that great job that your life revolved around.
You looked about for the support network of friends that you thought you still had and found . . . not much.
You were forced to give up living in an old, decrepit, but spacious and character-laden townhouse and dole out the cash to move into an even older and crappier but characterless and tiny apartment which you quickly came to hate.
You found a new job after a while, only to be “down-sized” several months later.
You found another new job after a while. You have come to absolutely despise your current job.
One of your beloved pets who brought joy to your every single day left you to become an angel.
You wish that ambience was the only problem with your residential building . . . as opposed to the constant issues with the hot water boiler breaking down, the over-worked maintenance staff taking weeks to get around to repairs, the high-turnover leasing staff . . . oh, and let’s not forget the crime rate.
You are divorced.
And child-less.
The one thing you simply cannot seem to earn/beg/steal/save is the alleged root of all evil.
One of your coworkers is the true root of all evil … or one of them anyway.
Every member of the opposite sex who you meet only wants to use you for a “good time”.
The one thing you need to be able to make changes is money — money that you don’t have and cannot manufacture until there are more than 24 hours in a day and you no longer need to sleep at night.
You are the black sheep of a family that lives on another continent.
Most of them haven’t talked to you in years.
99% of your friends are flakes who only want you as a part-time drinking companion. [Before you get to feeling smug that I cannot possibly be referring to YOU, ask yourself this: When was the last time you called me? When was the last time you initiated an email to me rather than responding to one I sent you? When was the last time you emailed me, period — excluding jokes and forwards? When was the last time, if ever, that you made actual plans with me?] . . . Crap, make that 99.5%.
You REALLY hate your job.
You are making considerably less money than you were making a year or two ago and even then you were struggling.
You are contemplating taking another O.M.G. pay-cut just to find a job that doesn’t make you drive home crying.
You are drowning under a tsunami of unemployment-induced debt.
In the fantasy-induced impossibility of that tsunami suddenly disappearing, there is a tornado of medical bills ripping along right behind it.
The combination of crappy hours, mind-numbing boredom, and the sheer head-spinning insanity of your crazy-cunt-coworker have caused you to develop a full-blown, incurable, life-long stress-related health condition.
No matter how much hoping/visualising/planning/lighting candles/farting rainbows/eating sensibly that you do, nothing seems to help.
You REALLY REALLY REALLY hate your job.
You have only just now realised that you wrote this entire rant in the third person.
There, feel better now? No? Neither do I.
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