Posted at 10:13 pm
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HELLO, LIFE? I QUIT YOU.
- I'm one third of the way through a fic that should've been finished two days ago. I'm one third of the way through, and I am stuck like a stuck thing. I cannot move forward, I cannot goad the characters into dialogue anywhere near IC, and I'm terrified to backtrack, because yeah. Should've been finished two days ago.
- My mobile bill this month is astronomical. No, really. While I do not recall using it for anything extraordinary, the amount due suggests that I've been phoning outer space. Frequently, and for extended lengths of time.
- I just stopped by work to check on next week's schedule, only to discover that I've been given a closing shift on Christmas Eve. Considering I am the only person on the shop's payroll with child, I am very close to gnawing on the furniture in a fit of rage. Nineteen year-old pothead underachievers living with their parents on all sides, and they schedule me for a closing shift on Christmas Eve.
WAY TO FUCKING PRIORITISE, YOU UTTER FUCKING FUCKWITS.
Assuming I do notmurder my manager in his bed quit between now and then, I guess I am bringing my son and my Christmas tree to work with me on Monday. Because, you know, the conversation where I tell my son he's spending Christmas Eve with a babysitter? It's not going to happen.
NO, REALLY. IT ISN'T.
- I'm one third of the way through a fic that should've been finished two days ago. I'm one third of the way through, and I am stuck like a stuck thing. I cannot move forward, I cannot goad the characters into dialogue anywhere near IC, and I'm terrified to backtrack, because yeah. Should've been finished two days ago.
- My mobile bill this month is astronomical. No, really. While I do not recall using it for anything extraordinary, the amount due suggests that I've been phoning outer space. Frequently, and for extended lengths of time.
- I just stopped by work to check on next week's schedule, only to discover that I've been given a closing shift on Christmas Eve. Considering I am the only person on the shop's payroll with child, I am very close to gnawing on the furniture in a fit of rage. Nineteen year-old pothead underachievers living with their parents on all sides, and they schedule me for a closing shift on Christmas Eve.
WAY TO FUCKING PRIORITISE, YOU UTTER FUCKING FUCKWITS.
Assuming I do not
NO, REALLY. IT ISN'T.
homicidal
