I just spent my first fifteen minutes in the office wondering how I can afford to have this baby if I walked out on this job today.
I came in for an hour yesterday, spent some time praising the porcelain god (nasty coworker germs) and then went home, deciding it wasn't worth spending the day barfing in earshot of the entire suite.
One of my informants tells me that a certain bee-yotch goes storming into my boss's office to complain that whenever she needed some information out of the database it's never there (that's because she tries to give that shit to other people to type up). I'm quite sure that the next words out of his mouth would have been "Well, there are two people here who can type that stuff for you," but he held his tongue knowing that BOTH of those people would quit if that was the case. More than likely, he made some commentary inferring that she should give it to me and I'd have it taken care of. Um, no. I'm sick of "taking care" of things in this office. I'm sick of ineptitude and being blamed when shit hits the fan because other people don't follow procedure.
I came in this morning to find a stack of shit for said beeyotch on my desk to type. My heart rate got up so fast that I was tempted to clean out my snack drawer, grab all my personal effects, and just LEAVE. Fuck the insurance. Fuck the references. I could probably take a leave of absence for a few weeks until my hormones aren't raging like the Hulks and come back (to clean out my desk because I've found another job), and I might have to do that.
I don't think its the microbaby making me barf. It's the idea of coming in here.
Posted by Tiffany at May 11, 2006 06:26 AM | TrackBack