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blissfully growing roots from my ass into the cushy confines of this rolling desk chair for the past four days, a sense of purpose and accomplishment has buoyed me in this time of intense mental activity. that is, until shit hit the fan just before quitting time, last night. more so than medicine, the military and tattoo artistry, the printing profession revolves around the concept of perfection... the very literal embodiment of having the "t's" crossed and the "i's" dotted. this morality is put upon even higher pedestals when a customer looks for any reason to ditch for better deals... cheaper rates, faster turnaround, big juicy smooches on the ass... anything is game to keep an account. like this shitpile of firearms magazines we've got. thy've been making noises about skipping out, and making all sorts of excuses to hit the road. naturally, we find a way to fuck up... and my name is among the culprits who didn't see an egregious error in the paperwork. so, for the past twenty-four hours, i've expected the worst... this company loves to make examples of those who make errors. it's why most of my co-workers like to make cheeky comments to anyone who might be cast out of the graces of the salaried set. so, of course, i fretted... on the way home, in my dreams, on the way back, in the door, to the timeclock. each step echoing with intent, as if each is the last... dead-man-walking. when it was time to face the music... it was like nothing ever happened. damned inconsistencies. though i'm loving inconsistency, right about now. good thing... i'm too spaced from the monotony to give to much effort into caring. so much for purpose and accomplishment. my purpose is to plant my ass on my very own futon, and accomplish the downing of a beer, in short order. there's just the simple matter of 84 miles to get past. |
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