Irritation.
It only took four weeks for me to want to sever relations with the new job … hell, it took me longer to get fed up with Two Strikes. This can’t be a good thing.
Spent a.m. attempting to do advance damage control and general mentoring with 420 re: the ways non-profits operate and the general unpleasantness yet necessity of corporate reindeer games. In the p.m., lo and behold, I had to remind myself to apply my two cents of advice when 50 cents’ worth of corporate reindeer poop landed straight on my poufy ‘do.
Summation: Tired of feeling hurt, and this time, it’s personal. ‘Twas bad enough when HRP was always ranting about something job-related, but today’s incident ripped the scab from an old wound or two and ensured that the pain from which I suffer every day on the subconscious level would only sting that much more excruciatingly for every remaining day of my existence. Thanks for the memories.
The catty side of my psyche has at least 100 brilliant retaliatory comments brewing in the old cauldron, but the side that is still camouflaging the burns and scars from my time at Two Strikes is simply scurrying to bandage yet another piece of scorched flesh and load up on bloodbags before the next knife incision occurs.
One day, when I work for myself, days like today will seem alien, inconceivable. May I never become what I hate most; may I never value appearance over personal worth of any employees I may hire. May no one’s spirit be wounded … neither accidentally nor purposely … by any actions or words on my behalf. And may I never, ever shed a tear again over this incident or anything related to it. And may HR kindly quit wearing low-cut, V-neck shirts … as if she thinks her cleavage will draw less attention to her h.r. (tee hee)