shutitdown: taking one for the anecdote

Results tagged “work”

When relationships go south

I've been in a bad relationship for nearly five years now. It has its ups and downs, but it's finally started to dawn on me that no matter how much I wish it might, it's never going to make me happy.

So last week I finally cut the cord on yet another shitty relationship and told my boss I'm quitting. This was very exciting, because I've essentially been playing a game of last man standing at work. Of the ten people that I started with, as of two months ago, I'm the only one left despite the betting pool putting the odds on me going first. This is because I love to hang around in a bad relationship feeling sorry for myself. Anyone who has ever seen me with a boyfriend can attest to this.

I've long compared my job to an abusive boyfriend. Or like, a really, really cute abusive boyfriend. A boyfriend that's so cute that all of your friends and family are really impressed and secretly surprised that you landed him. And they all tell you that you'd be a fool to dump him because you all suspect that you'll never do this well next time around, and you should really try and make it work and appreciate him more. But in your heart you know that he's actually a really shitty boyfriend and that being really cute isn't quite enough. And that's sort of what it's like to work for one of the top companies in the world. It's not really quite enough. And the fact is, you shouldn't live your life terrified of change--there are way cuter jobs out there.

So I told my boss (and his boss) that I'm leaving to go travel. It's weird how emotional it all feels. My job has been the one constant in my life for five years. I've lived in three countries, the boyfriends have come and gone and I've gotten one meaningless promotion after another. And even though my job is about as empty as a job can be, it was something to hold on to. Because when you are at a loss for what you are doing with your life, having a really cute job is still something.

By Lina on August 23, 2009 12:06 AM

Differently-abled toilets

The highlight of my working day is when I walk down the hall to the toilets and see that the disabled toilet is vacant. The hall is long, and to the left is the regular ladies room--a room full of the sounds (and smells) of my colleagues evacuating. This bathroom, this stable of toilet stalls, mocks me, giggling at the fact that so long as I'm employed I will never, ever have a moment to myself, even when I'm taking a wizz.

So when I walk down that long hall, and look to the right and see that the little red light on the door to the disabled toilet isn't visible, and that I'm going to get to spend some time alone pissing in a room that's nearly as big as my entire flat, my heart jumps. Not seeing that red light is enough to buoy my mood right up to the point that I stop thinking of how appealing spree killing seems, which otherwise occupies a significant portion of my day. And yes, I do realize how depressing it is that the highlight of my career is the time I get to spend frolicking around a toilet meant for people with multiple sclerosis.

But yeah, I feel fondly towards these toilets for the disabled. So fondly, in fact, that I tried to crash one this morning around 6am at Heathrow. I was speedwalking, honing in on that sweet disabled action. I had nearly made it inside when some uppity immigrant completely cockblocked me and was like, "This is HANDICAPPED toilet."

I understand why people with really shitty jobs like to hold on for dear life to whatever inane scraps of control they can eke out of their meaningless, demeaning lives and are always telling me things like that I can't use the handicapped toilets. Like, I get that. You scrub airport toilets. Telling people off is pretty much all you have. But toilet-scrubber woman, can't you take one look into my empty, soulless eyes and realize that pissing in a handicapped toilet is all I have?

So I advanced. "C'mon. Let me in."

And she retreated. "It's handicapped. Handicapped toilet."

And I parried. "Those are just guidelines. You don't actually have to be handicapped to use it."

And she repeated. "Then why does it say handicapped?"

"It doesn't actually say handicapped, it just has a picture of a person with wheels. In fact, I don't think you're supposed to say handicapped, it's sort of offensive these days," I say snottily.

She waves at me with her filthy, diarrhea covered mop. "Out. Handicapped toilet. For handicapped."

"C'MON," I plead.

She has had it. She's waving the mop dangerously close to my person. "For handicap only! Are you handicapped? Are you?" She clearly hasn't considered my emotional health and can only see two thick, but able, legs.

"My vagina's broken. Want me to show you?" I say, tugging on the hem of my dress.

"I call security now." While we wait for them to arrive, I sodomize her with the mop.

By Lina on June 18, 2009 6:20 PM
1

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