My own personal seashell pink diary
Well, balls.
Recently it became fairly clear that the other researcher and I would be hired on to continue here, at higher pay, in May. They've got our research forms built into the new computer systme, and offices for us, and all that—but yesterday my analfororganization boss insisted that I create charts and tables for our research requests, as well as their subjects, and so now, on plain paper, it's clear to all that not only do we handle very few requests (1.8 a day) that require very little actual work time (about 45 minutes a piece), but they're mostly idiotic in nature.
She's in a meeting right now negotiating for our future.
If this place dumps me in May, you can bet your bottom I'm gonna go hawk books at Half Price or Border's . . . or hawk beer at some liquor shop. I don't think I could be a bartender.
Well, jep, this blog has become my private journal for the day. I'm going to come here to moan and whine and you're going to read it, all of it, are going to suck it down like cold spaghetti, sauce spattering your good blue shirt and damp noodles streaking trails across your chin.
Dear Diary:
Yesterday I replaced Grandpa's pipe tobacco with gun powder!
Woowee!
Recently it became fairly clear that the other researcher and I would be hired on to continue here, at higher pay, in May. They've got our research forms built into the new computer systme, and offices for us, and all that—but yesterday my analfororganization boss insisted that I create charts and tables for our research requests, as well as their subjects, and so now, on plain paper, it's clear to all that not only do we handle very few requests (1.8 a day) that require very little actual work time (about 45 minutes a piece), but they're mostly idiotic in nature.
She's in a meeting right now negotiating for our future.
If this place dumps me in May, you can bet your bottom I'm gonna go hawk books at Half Price or Border's . . . or hawk beer at some liquor shop. I don't think I could be a bartender.
Well, jep, this blog has become my private journal for the day. I'm going to come here to moan and whine and you're going to read it, all of it, are going to suck it down like cold spaghetti, sauce spattering your good blue shirt and damp noodles streaking trails across your chin.
Dear Diary:
Yesterday I replaced Grandpa's pipe tobacco with gun powder!
Woowee!
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