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Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson

Last day working in Temp Job Number Two and I’m desperately trying to use my time constructively, particularly considering that the free internet access that I’ve been enjoying for the last two weeks will be cruelly taken from me at the end of today and probably won’t be available in any of my next few assignments.

But instead of being proactive, I’ve spent the day barely awake. Oh, sure, I googled the word “caffeine” so that I could do some research for my next biology essay, and printed out some stuff. I opened my books up and read some of the forum postings on the Open University site and started to take notes, but then remembered I hadn’t checked the headlines on the RTE site and then started listening to Gerry Ryan and while I did that read most of the Irish Times online and printed off the crossword and then checked all my email addresses and Chortle and all the blogs I regularly read and participated in two different five way email conversations that both for no good reason came to the conclusion that I’m a raging slag and all the while moving pieces of paper around my desk to make it look busy but approachable and then it was lunchtime and I went outside and did the crossword I had previously printed off and sat in the sun for a bit and now I’m listening to the Milk Run on the BBC radio site and I couldn’t be more bored if I tried.

I’m too sleepy and bored to do anything constructive that would stop me being sleepy and bored. I keep turning around to stare at my OU books that are sitting on the desk behind me on my left hand side, all ready and waiting for me to open them and go treasure hunting through them for the answers to the impossible questions I have to answer by the end of this weekend. At least while I’m chained (not literally of course) to a desk with full on internet access, then I’d be better off doing them now then tomorrow when I’m trapped in my house with endless DVD and telly access, shops down the road and a lot of pubs come to think of it and no internet for me to ask questions to. But instead, I do this. Nothing. All of this nothing.

Thankfully I haven’t heard back from the recruitment agency about how the interview went yesterday, so I’m assuming that I failed miserably and that they hated me forever and what’s more word is being circulated even as I type around the law firms in London Town that I am completely unemployable, and I will soon run out of money and food and will have to live in a tube station where a dog will sit beside me and I’ll start playing the tin whistle for money and office workers will pretend they can’t see me and I’ll have to get some weird looking greeny-blue prison tattoos in my arms and start taking heroins. I say “thankfully” at the beginning there, because that would at least mean that tomorrow I get to have a proper, decent day’s sleep, and won’t be as ratty or irresponsible or bored or listless as I am today.


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