3...2...1...

It’s now the downhill bit of my notice period. The embodiment of upper-middle-class white male privilege bossman has continued to be a turd, but it’s only 8...7...6 days to go. Hah!

He’s actually getting worse, not only to me but to the rest of the team. They’re developing the hollow-eyed fearness as more and more I get to say, gee, I’ll be gone when that meeting happens, so you’ll need to arrange details with the Prancer and send the invite yourself you fool, you poor poor fool. Bwa ha ha. Prancer has made no moves to arrange for my replacement, of course, the better to sink into a deep rotted entropy that leaves the next poor sod on the back foot from her first day.

Of course it’ll be a her, not a him. His sagging pastry libido couldn’t stand the blow of a male assistant. I’ve suggested to the agency that they look for a former marine. Hooya, Prancer. Hooya.

As to my own future, the next steps are falling together with somewhat worrisome convenience. I spent some time with the agency rep beating my cv into shape, and for the past two days it’s been a golden ticket. I fear the ironic comeuppance surely lying in wait.

And yet, if there’s been any unifying theme to my life, it’s that common sense is a big rusty beartrap while huge impulsive moves lead to the yellow brick road.

incoming outgoing

Right, what sadist came up with the month’s notice scheme? It’s barely been a week and I’m ready to soak the bridge not yet behind me in paraffin and chant about the fifth of November.

Sadist, I’m well aware of the reasons for fleeing this office like I just let loose a largish pack of sexually frustrated guinea pigs on the tea counter. Especially the one where the exec is seemingly incapable of looking at his own schedule, remembering when he’s demanded I fit meetings in, or giving me small unimportant details like who should be at a meeting until five minutes before it’s due to start.

Prancer: These people I’m meeting with later—is anyone from marketing attending?
Oda: (opens the meeting in his Outlook calendar, which contains his original email requesting to set up the meeting) No, just you.
Prancer: Fuck, why not?
Oda: Your email didn’t mention anyone but you.
Prancer: Well I thought I’d implied that I didn’t want to meet with them. I hate those fucking idiots. (sulk...glare...)

Or...

Prancer: Get us lunch for a meeting I’ve just made, tomorrow.
Oda: (has long since accepted that no one else realises catering isn’t magicked up by eternally burning golems rather than temperamental pseudo-chefs) Any specifics you’d li—
Prancer: Whatever.
later, after a frantic email exchange confirming what catering had in stock:
Oda: Your lunch tomorrow is sorted, and I’ve reserved Room—
Prancer: Is it a light lunch? Because I don’t want all that shit you usually get.
Oda: No, it’s—
Prancer: All I want is sandwiches, sushi, and those little chocolate biscuit things.

The worst part is, that’s exactly what I ordered.

This is how the Stockholm starts, isn’t it?

pursued by a bear

Yesterday I was fired.

Technically, I quit, twice, after which Prancer declared that it wasn’t working out for him and I would have to find another position. O noes, rly?

It’s typical that even this conversation immediately deteriorated into a sophomore break-up. No, you’re not breaking up with me, I’m breaking up with you! Just picture me working for a short, podgy version of Ross Geller.

But only for four more weeks! Or less, if I land another contract sooner. Whee!

I should not be this happy to be unemployed in a maneating city like London. And the fellow buttmonkeys I’ve told shouldn’t have been so happy for me. And yet.