Well, Im fucked.
Totally, fuckally fucking fucked.
Today I cracked, lost it, spat the dummy, threw the chips in, walked off the bus; the backs of an unfortunate camel broken, and I had fresh run out of straws.
Today was the day I walked away from a job of twenty years at “the Company”. I won’t refer to the actional name of my employer or place of employment; nobody wants a lawsuit.
Although the names of individuals in my story are changed, descriptions, in my opinion, remain accurate. Place of employment and location geographically have also changed. You’ll understand why if you read on. Fuck it, I’ll tell you now, we are all friends here, right?
I live in a fucking fishbowl; the town I live and (previously) worked in is small, not honkytonk, banjo wielding level small, just under fifteen thousand people small, and remote, fucking remote.
A third of the town is either;
employed by the Company;
uses the Company’s goods and services;
and/or live in the Companys provided housing.
So fuckingly small, fucking remote with fuck all options if you are on the outside.
And fuck, am I now on the outside, told the fucking pox riddled twat face, maniacal, megalomaniac, micromanaging, bullying corporate bull pig, Ms Harlow, in clear and uncertain terms, exactly what I thought of her management style and N.A.S.A. rocket program high expectations.
Fucking dreaming…
When we get driven to a certain point, we all think we will go out in a self righteous, guns blazing round of glorious Golden Globe; nay, Ill shoot high, Oscar-worthy winning monologue of precisely what “whom” can do with “what” and place it in which orifice (dealers choice).
In truth, the above is just a load of bullshit, based on wishful thinking after the event, fun thinking of what I would have liked/should have done.
The day I ended my career, I didn’t go out with a bang; it was a whimper.
Surviving Harlow 