2004-03-10 - 9:40 p.m.

Like work. Today, no exaggeration, I thought my head was going to fly off my body. I am tired of doing other peoples jobs in addition to my own, tired of shouldering far more than my share, jumping it to put out everyone's fires, and not getting shit for it. My job is to bring in the business, not bring it in and then HENPECK EVERY OTHER FUCKING DEPARTMENT TO DEATH AND HAND HOLD THEM until it gets delivered.

So today, I reached my limit. My boss called me this afternoon to ask if I could sit down with her and give one of the tech designers direction on a project. And I told her no. Just that. NO. And she asked why not, and I just went off. "'Because I'm NOT THE TECH DESIGNER, that's why. And I am sick and tired of this shit. I bust my ass to bring programs in here, and all I hear is no. No I can't deliver, no I can't get that price, no I can't air it, no I can't find that fabric. FUCK IT. If they don't care, I don't care. If they don't come up with anything then we don't get the business. I'm over it."

Heh. I am oh so very professional, aren't I? Luckily, my boss is Deb, or I'd be out on my ass. This, my friends, is why it is preferable to hire your own boss. If I'm going to be frustrated out of my mind, goddamn it, I'm going to at least be able to vent it.

And in other news, I was walking east on Morton the other night and I saw a color photocopy taped to the door of a walkup. It was a close up of a dog, a Chow, and printed with the dog's date of birth and date of death, with a little caption that said We Miss You Already. And on the steps in front of the door, a little shrine, left by neighbors. Three red roses, those religious candles in the tall glass jars, lit, the kind you buy at the grocery store. And a tennis ball, and a note that said "It was a pleasure knowing you. R.I.P" Left by the neighbors, I know. Community is very precious in cities, and it's a strange breed of it. You don't know where your neighbor is originally from, or if they like their parents, or what the inside of their apartments look like, you know? Just the bits of your lives you share at the corner deli or in the lobby or elevator. But you always know their dogs. Maybe tomorrow I'll write about my own. Neighborhood dogs, that is.

last - next