Screw you, Joe.
For the first time that I can remember, I'm too aggravated to go back to sleep. I've been too excited, too worried, too sore - hell, I've been too tired to go back too sleep some nights (or mornings), but never too aggravated. So I've decided to vent. On my livejournal.
I have two jobs right now, but somehow have not been able to work. Over two weeks ago, I registered with a company that takes contracts from other companies that need manual labourish type help. Us registered employees are called and told where to go and when. I've been given three shifts so far and am none too happy about that. Sitting on my ass by the phone doesn't pay the goddam bills. Strike one.
Last week, I had a brief interview with Joe for a position with another company. This guy can't seem get his shit together and get me working. First, I was supposed to start Thursday or Friday. I don't know what happened there. Then, I was going to start Monday. "Sorry man, I forgot that Monday is a holiday. We're not working then. I'll call you tomorrow." No you won't, you idiot, because you keep forgetting. I could have started yesterday if it wasn't for this. Finally, we worked out a time yesterday for me to start - 6:00 this morning. The last time I was up that late was waiting for the shuttle to go back to PEI for whatever break I had. I can't remember the last time I actually slept and woke up to do something at six in the goddam morning. I couldn't care less when I start, though. I just want to start period.
Joe was supposed to pick me up at a pre-arranged location close to my apartment between 5:50 and 6:00am. At 6:20, I walked home, full of ragehol, muttering to myself about what a jackass he is and about my shitty situation. Strike two.
All I wanted to do when I got home was go back to sleep and hopefully continue my dream about a cute Jewish girl that my mind invented, but I couldn't even lie still, let alone focus my thoughts. I've been surfing the internet for a while, drinking cup after cup of Hazelnut instant coffee, wondering when, if ever, strike three will occur and make my head explode from an asshole overload. Watching Judge Slutface with my roommate Ian, I realized that a perfect job for me would be a judge in small claims court. I would be able to act above all the idiots with complaints and verbally bitchslap them while grinning like an idiot myself. The difference, however, is that I'd have a sparkle in my eye from the happiness I'd get from contributing to other people's misery. And I'd have a gavel to hit things with.
The only other alternative is to get rich and buy an island a few kilometers off the coast of a European country. I would retire early and spend the rest of my days writing and building a wicked house and a boat. If anyone has read Transmetropolitan, imagine that, but without the city and journalism and aliens. Several times per year, I would paddle to shore to buy a buttload of groceries and additional supplies, having as little contact as possible with everyone else. All contact with anyone not greatly important to me would be severed, because fuck those guys. Any of my friends who I haven't alienated by that point are more than welcome to visit, or even build a house of their own. Just stay out of my booze.
This coffee is starting to take effect, which I didn't think happened anymore for me. Seu Jorge's soothing voice isn't stopping my hands from shaking, so I'm going to take a shower and buy some food. Thanks for listening.
Edit: That shower didn't help. Also, that coffee expired in February. Of last year. Wheeeee I'm wired.
I have two jobs right now, but somehow have not been able to work. Over two weeks ago, I registered with a company that takes contracts from other companies that need manual labourish type help. Us registered employees are called and told where to go and when. I've been given three shifts so far and am none too happy about that. Sitting on my ass by the phone doesn't pay the goddam bills. Strike one.
Last week, I had a brief interview with Joe for a position with another company. This guy can't seem get his shit together and get me working. First, I was supposed to start Thursday or Friday. I don't know what happened there. Then, I was going to start Monday. "Sorry man, I forgot that Monday is a holiday. We're not working then. I'll call you tomorrow." No you won't, you idiot, because you keep forgetting. I could have started yesterday if it wasn't for this. Finally, we worked out a time yesterday for me to start - 6:00 this morning. The last time I was up that late was waiting for the shuttle to go back to PEI for whatever break I had. I can't remember the last time I actually slept and woke up to do something at six in the goddam morning. I couldn't care less when I start, though. I just want to start period.
Joe was supposed to pick me up at a pre-arranged location close to my apartment between 5:50 and 6:00am. At 6:20, I walked home, full of ragehol, muttering to myself about what a jackass he is and about my shitty situation. Strike two.
All I wanted to do when I got home was go back to sleep and hopefully continue my dream about a cute Jewish girl that my mind invented, but I couldn't even lie still, let alone focus my thoughts. I've been surfing the internet for a while, drinking cup after cup of Hazelnut instant coffee, wondering when, if ever, strike three will occur and make my head explode from an asshole overload. Watching Judge Slutface with my roommate Ian, I realized that a perfect job for me would be a judge in small claims court. I would be able to act above all the idiots with complaints and verbally bitchslap them while grinning like an idiot myself. The difference, however, is that I'd have a sparkle in my eye from the happiness I'd get from contributing to other people's misery. And I'd have a gavel to hit things with.
The only other alternative is to get rich and buy an island a few kilometers off the coast of a European country. I would retire early and spend the rest of my days writing and building a wicked house and a boat. If anyone has read Transmetropolitan, imagine that, but without the city and journalism and aliens. Several times per year, I would paddle to shore to buy a buttload of groceries and additional supplies, having as little contact as possible with everyone else. All contact with anyone not greatly important to me would be severed, because fuck those guys. Any of my friends who I haven't alienated by that point are more than welcome to visit, or even build a house of their own. Just stay out of my booze.
This coffee is starting to take effect, which I didn't think happened anymore for me. Seu Jorge's soothing voice isn't stopping my hands from shaking, so I'm going to take a shower and buy some food. Thanks for listening.
Edit: That shower didn't help. Also, that coffee expired in February. Of last year. Wheeeee I'm wired.