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Vol. 2, No. 4
Laundry has reached critical mass. What is a 40-hr. work week, anyway? Some quaint old custom from long ago?
Just when I had interviews lined up and was ready to break free from the chains of my version of corporate slavery, I got a carrot (no lettuce, just the carrot) at work.
Once again, it was just in time to make me rethink my options. Once again, I should have stuck to my game plan.
When will I learn?
I'm running myself ragged trying to do more work than humans should be allowed to do. I am an absolute model of efficiency -- more than I've ever been in my life. Statues should be erected to hail my work ethic.
Yet, the miserable games have emerged once again, bigger and more unfair than ever...and I've lost my interest in playing. There must be someplace on earth where I can actually expect a reasonable facsimile of fairness and a smaller truckload of s@!*. Call me a dreamer. (Those that know me well are laughing hysterically at that last statement...there have already been statues erected in honor of my unswerving realism and undying pragmatism.)
Once again, I plead to the mysterious reader out there can offer me a dream job. If you have the authority to hire one of the brightest women you'll ever meet (with experience in management, training, database and web site development, information science, writing/editing, and electrochemistry) into a fabulously rewarding corporate position, e-mail me at firstname.lastname@example.org and I'll send you my impressive resume. (Read: Save me!)
Of course, I have to admit that I felt much better after making strategic lyrical changes to Are You Just Stupid? and F@*! Art, Let's Dance! at practice tonight. It's pretty bad when the day that inspired Comfort Rating Zero is, retrospectively, looking like a day at the beach.
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