Alternative title: Sometimes I think the Universe is a mischievous little git…

 

HR Lady: “Hi Ruebi I’m just calling about your job interview at ‘Company’ the other day, the interviewers have made a decision about the next stage”.

Me: “Oh aye?”

HR Lady: “They’ve decided there won’t be any second interviews…”

Brain: “Well this shit sounds familiar! I’ll get the gin and an IV line”.

Me: “I see, well thank you for taking the time t-”

HR Lady: “We’d like to offer you the job…if you’d like it?”

Me: “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

Brain: “TAKE IT! TAKE IT! JUST TAKE THE DAMNED OFFER! DON’T MAKE ME KICK YOU IN THE HYPOTHALAMUS!”

And take the damned offer is exactly what I did.

And then I stared into space for quite a few hours as the realisation sunk in that in a matter of days I would be back in an office.

An employee once more.

“Think of the money” I told myself.

“Think of the pension!” My brain cheered back.

“To hell with the pension…with our government I’ll be working until I die…I’ll be found sitting at my desk partially mummified, forehead squished against the monitor, with turd in my pants and a mug containing sentient coffee on a coaster next to the mouse!” I argued back. My brain hastened to agree.

You see, while I am thrilled to be back in the world of employment (drinking green lager and going stir crazy due to Cabin Fever is doing nothing for my reputation) I am also a little conflicted about it. I keep trying to convince myself that it is just nerves, a bit of anxiety, not enough gin in my bloodstream…but in reality I think it’s because nobody ever dreams of becoming an office monkey. I certainly didn’t when growing up…don’t get me wrong, up until the age of 5 or 6 (or 13) I probably wanted to be an otter, but I also wanted to be a veterinary surgeon, a scientist, a writer, a professional rock-climber.

 

River Otter

“When I grow up I’m totally going to become an office monkey….I mean, think of the PENSION!” … (source)

I understand that I need to work in order to live…be it office monkey, retail assistant or dog-poop-bin-fairy (they exist damnit!). Work equals money which equals that ‘Psychoville‘ boxset that I’ve had my eye on for months now. I guess the older I get the more I worry that I haven’t found my niche, that I will never find my niche, that my niche has upped and disappeared like a fart in wind never to be discovered!

I should just be happy with a job that is tolerable, that pays a decent wage (that said, just having a wage is a vast improvement on the Dolescum way of life) and that offers a working environment that doesn’t make you want to melt your face off with a magnifying glass.

A job that allows me to buy gin that isn’t the supermarket own brand, though obviously I won’t consume it at work as chances are I’ll be required to share it (I don’t share gin). A job that allows me to go on holiday, rather than the occasional day trip to Accrington town centre (don’t ask). A job that  allows me the chance to buy more cacti, because you can never (EVER) have too many cacti (which reminds me, Pudding is still alive!). A job that allows me peace of mind regarding finances, because crying over the fact you can’t afford to replace your holey underpants is just the lowest of all low points.

So on my first day I will dress professionally (I have suits and everything!), I will smile (hopefully it won’t look too awkward), I’ll ask job related questions (as I have difficulties paying attention when someone waffles on about personal matters) and I will pretend that this job is the golden fucking goose of all jobs…and who knows, maybe I am totally off the mark with this niche rubbish, maybe I am destined to be an office monkey for the remainder of my days.

In which case the other office monkeys had better watch out as I can sling turds with the best of them!

 

R (aka Office Otter) x