That's it. I'm done. Through. Over.
I know I said this at the end of last season, but for real, I mean it this time. To keep my letters spoiler-free, I'll refrain from saying any more, but after that headlining episode mid-season, I wondered if the only reason I stayed tuned might be because I had friends coming over to watch it every week.
Now, after what you've done tonight, I have to tell you the shaky ground we've been on all season has officially crumbled beneath our feet. There's no turning back. And if I weren't so tired, I could say this with fewer clichés. Not that you seem to mind them, yourself.
Nice job with the artsy landscape shots of the Highlands. I will say that. But not Rose nor Sybbie nor the miracle of Mary's 25-inch waistline at 8 months gestation will draw me in next January.
Hugs & kisses,
B
Sunday, February 17, 2013
Monday, February 11, 2013
Dear Large Corporation That Hired Me Last June,
I've made it eight months, and I count that as a victory miracle blackout ... well, it's something. Probably mostly a sign of my impending insanity.
Thanks for paying me. It's really nice to buy a DVD without worrying about what meal I'll have to skip so I can afford it, and it's really rather awesome seeing my savings account grow instead of shrink for the first time in five years. When I bought my new peacoat on sale for 80% off, it was a pleasant surprise at the checkout, not a necessary reduction so I could also pay rent. It's good being financially sound.
All I'm saying is, I don't really like these 9- and 10-hour workdays that are starting to become regular. I don't like that I come home at 7:30, too tired to eat dinner let alone make it, shower, collapse in bed, and wake up a few hours later to start it all over again. I don't like that I can project a 57-hour workweek and my boss doesn't say, "That's too much," but instead says, "So, things are going well?" I don't like sitting at my desk, dizzy from exhaustion, ready to cry, and knowing it's only Monday afternoon. And I don't like writing about software.
(There. I said it.)
I'm still confused what you, a corporation that hires only 1% of applicants and recruits heavily from Ivy schools, saw in my application and interview, why you decided I would be a good fit. But even more so, I'm confused why you're the only place I applied to that even gave me an interview, much less an offer. I've made it eight months, and after four more, maybe that full year of experience on my résumé will give me whatever it is I need to move on, move out, and move away from the "hyper competitive and quasi abusive" work environment you've developed to separate the career-focused all stars from the 9-to-5ers who have already chosen their career and need only a means of paying for it. All I'm asking is for a 40-hour workweek. I haven't had one of those since 2008.
In other news, I'm getting my first creative piece published in a recognized journal. It is, in fact, the only thing keeping me going each day, this little secret I'll never really tell you about, the deep-down, this-is-who-I-really-am nugget of creativity. My real career.
Insincere hugs & kisses,
B
Thanks for paying me. It's really nice to buy a DVD without worrying about what meal I'll have to skip so I can afford it, and it's really rather awesome seeing my savings account grow instead of shrink for the first time in five years. When I bought my new peacoat on sale for 80% off, it was a pleasant surprise at the checkout, not a necessary reduction so I could also pay rent. It's good being financially sound.
All I'm saying is, I don't really like these 9- and 10-hour workdays that are starting to become regular. I don't like that I come home at 7:30, too tired to eat dinner let alone make it, shower, collapse in bed, and wake up a few hours later to start it all over again. I don't like that I can project a 57-hour workweek and my boss doesn't say, "That's too much," but instead says, "So, things are going well?" I don't like sitting at my desk, dizzy from exhaustion, ready to cry, and knowing it's only Monday afternoon. And I don't like writing about software.
(There. I said it.)
I'm still confused what you, a corporation that hires only 1% of applicants and recruits heavily from Ivy schools, saw in my application and interview, why you decided I would be a good fit. But even more so, I'm confused why you're the only place I applied to that even gave me an interview, much less an offer. I've made it eight months, and after four more, maybe that full year of experience on my résumé will give me whatever it is I need to move on, move out, and move away from the "hyper competitive and quasi abusive" work environment you've developed to separate the career-focused all stars from the 9-to-5ers who have already chosen their career and need only a means of paying for it. All I'm asking is for a 40-hour workweek. I haven't had one of those since 2008.
In other news, I'm getting my first creative piece published in a recognized journal. It is, in fact, the only thing keeping me going each day, this little secret I'll never really tell you about, the deep-down, this-is-who-I-really-am nugget of creativity. My real career.
Insincere hugs & kisses,
B
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