I just wrote a very VERY self-indulgent ‘poor me’ entry, and then out of a burst of common sense, deleted every single word of it before even saving a proto-draft, because damn. Who in their right mind would spout off about bad crap when they just got back from VACATION?
Holy shit Tiff, get a freaking grip. You just had several days of fun in the sun, of fresh air (Times Square!) and great friends and many many items of debauchery, and you’re going to BITCH ABOUT YOUR LIFE.
Shut the fuck up, Tiff. Just shut. Up.
I am simply depressed about being back at work. About staring my white board that, as of this moment, has 19 projects on it that I’m tracking. Nineteen. Seven of which I’m managing, which means constant contact with the vendors who are doing that work, asking me for guidance and input while I’m juggling the process issues. The leaves 12 projects that are mine, all mine. Eight of which need to be done by the END OF THE YEAR.
This is far too much work to think about all at once. This is the kind of work that a person who loves to work would kill for.
I? am not one of those people who LOVE to work, but I cannot complain about my current situation to anyone, because I brought this on myself, I agreed to do those projects because there was NOBODY ELSE to do them and outsourcing was not possible and so, to save my boss from working yet another series of 80-hour weeks (no exaggeration), I said I could do the work, which now finds me in the position of just about falling to bits whenever I consider starting even one silly little thing.
Names run together, project codes meld, indications and filing types and timelines intermingle in an evil slurry of responsibility, and I have to drink the poison of my own making.
I’m particularly crabby about that last part.
Also? Maybe I’m crabby because a few days ago a crab actually had the temerity to PINCH ME right on the soft meat of my right index finger, and that little farker DREW BLOOD. No amount of prying would tear that wee demon loose, and it finally turned out that a stranger had to pry its claws apart with a plastic shovel to get it off of me. My God, that hurt. If that crab had been any bigger, I’m sure that right now I’d be minus one fair-sized hunk of finger-meat, and that crab would be dreaming of its next meal of human flesh.
I shall never again laugh at ‘comedic’ scenes involving netherbits getting becrabbed, for it is no laughing matter.
Maybe that crab infected me with crabbiness! Perhaps at any moment I’ll begin scuttling sideways. Perhaps I’m on the verge of sprouting eyes on stalks and a sand-colored carapace. Perhaps there’s a wet sandy pond bottom waiting for me to shimmy my mega-ass into where I can lie in wait for my next victim to chomp onto. Grumpy ol’ crab-Tiff, lurking in the depths, fluxing brackish water over her book lungs while fish larvae dart above her head, backlist by a noon sun.
It’d be better than working, that’s for damned sure.