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.
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