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Dreadful Nonsense

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



I’ve been getting more and more grumpy over the last two weeks – this is partially the reason why the blog hasn’t been updated more often, due to the fact that most of the entries I was idly composing in my head consisted of me screaming in capital letters WHY MUST YOU ALL BE SO DAMNED RUDE and EVERYONE SHOULD REALLY BE MORE LIKE ME, DON’T YOU THINK? and I WANT EVERYONE IN THE WORLD TO DIE. I decided against posting most of these, because I thought there was a strong chance that I might end up being arrested.

However, I have decided to take a step in the right direction and start addressing what I’m insisting on calling my “work/life balance”, because that makes me sound like a wanker from the 1980s.

The main thrust of this Plan, if we can call it a Plan, and if the Plan does indeed have some thrust, is to find a new job. I know, the first and second rules about blogging are that we do not talk about work, but I’m not talking about work, strictly speaking. I won’t mention the fact that my boss [redacted] and that I would [redacted], given half a chance, and I will also not mention in great detail the many different ways the other secretaries in the company make me want to split my own head open in rage, having to listen to conversations about only three topics - (a) diets, (b) weddings or (c) pregnancy.

I had the genius idea of opening my eyes while walking around my local area, taking in the names of the law firms located in my local area, and emailing them, completely uninvited, and rudely attaching my CV to beg for a job. As it happened, one of the local firms took the bait, and over the weekend I worked out that, if I worked there instead of where I currently work, I would have Three Extra Hours In My Day (hours that are currently spent commuting and plotting various people’s deaths). Three Extra Hours cannot be sneezed at, and it’s hard to put a price on the fact that I would never have to get on the tube during rush hour again.

Working there would probably put a halt to the rot that is currently setting into my soul, the rot that makes me go out and pay £40 for a skirt in order to cheer myself up, £6 on lunch every fucking day because I feel the need to “treat” myself, or swimming furiously for an hour, up and down, working through elaborate fantasies about what I should have said to everyone that day that had pissed me off. It would save me having to hold back from actually finally buying the gun and going completely postal. It would, in short, make me a better person.

Unfortunately the job pays suck-ass money. Far too little money to consider working for. Less money than I earned in Dublin. Not even the Three Extra Hours could make up for the shortfall in money.

So now I’m even more depressed than when I started this Plan. I hope it all turns around, and soon.

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