I’m at work on a Sunday, raging about shitty treatment and looking for another job in the downtime. I’m looking for the spaces between spaces, trying to find a way through in order to get something better for myself.
One of those “sick of my job” posts, but I’m more just over how shitty their treatment is. Instead of sticking it out, it’s about time that I look for a job that is better for me and my situation.
They don’t want to promote or move people who have experience around, but instead they’ll have those people leave and go for another job, which really makes sense to me.
Maybe I’m a bad worker. I cant deny this. However, that does not mean that I need to put up with poor treatment in a work place.
In the interim, I shall pry and creak and crack open the answers and read the yolk of their contents. I shall keep on going and try to get somewhere else than is here, as is here is not where I want to be anymore. This was good for a time, but it’s going downhill fast and I don’t need to be here when it crashes. In fact, it is probably better that I’m in a better position than I am now, so I’m not forced into a position that could mean that I am under risk of something, or something else.
Yes, I am rambling. No, I do not care that I am rambling.
Wrist is hurting, but that may be due to the positioning of my desk. Something that I can combat and combat it I shall very well do. There is little else to do right now.
Maybe I’m just getting old and old injuries are flaring up to remind me of my mortality, something that I thought I wold have left behind a long time ago.
Oh well. Such is life. Must work with them.
Must work on writing more. Been lazy. Too much of writing stuff that no one will ever see. Must keep on writing other things. Must write the things that people will see. Actually just must write the thighs that I want to write. Does not matter if people do or do not see them. After all, it is all training to become a better writer at the end of the day.
Training and work and somehow, there is one other person on this journey of tedium. Or maybe there are many. Maybe there are not many. Maybe I’m just stringing words together right now in order to try and make something vaguely profound. I don’t know what I’m doing.
Do I ever know what it is that I am doing in any moment of the day?
I’m only along for my own ride, man, and I can only go where the tracks lead. There’s no gettin’ offa this train that we’re on.
Or maybe there is, when it reaches a station for trains and passengers.
The time it took to write five-hundred words: 05:21:19
National Novel Writing Month has taken up a lot of time.
So has procrastination, really.
Written at work.