I feel tumultuous. Like Gary Busey in high wind.
Work has been insane in the membrane. Or for the less bombastic: totes nutsack.
In the last fortnight, all hell don break loose (stopping just shy of my shorts catching fire with only vodka to put ‘em out). Each morning, trying to wake myself to the dawn was like a pterodactyl being born with tiny wing-claws and grit in its eyes … the end of every day like tits-up Titanic, with the band playing on as everyone scrambled on deck, our ship soaring and splitting in two like a whopping-wafer in an angry iced-latte.
Then. Friday. Things came to an iceberg-lettuce head.
Read: people crying into career soups and one dickhead nigh losing his job.
See, my boss went on leave. Yep. That was it. He went on walkabout and into his competent ‘n’ charismatic loafers stepped another. A woman I quite like, but one unprepared for the dickhead dead ahead; the he-man hurdle she had to clear to be awarded gold. (For us all to be awarded gold.) The details themselves are as long and winding as the collective intestines of The Beatles but suffice to say, he was too wide of wit and tall of ego for it to end well. Our fallout primarily political, his yet to be determined – it was one helluva ride.
Somewhere in the middle, was I. Clambering to keep up, to maintain a sense of logic amongst the panic, mutiny and high-seas. I may as well have been trying to send a fax in an insane asylum, using a post-it and the butt-crack of a contiguous catatonic.
In case you’re wondering, it looked a little like this:
Monday, the boss returns. Peaceful and pious on holiday cheer, he’ll no doubt sprint the last metre of our virtual marathon, barely breaking a bead. Never mind that we’re all shadows of our former felicitations, or that we’ve agnostically-aged faster than Lori Singer in Warlock.
That said, if we’re gonna silver-line this wedgie, it was in the midst of the climactic crunch that I made the decision to finally leave it all behind. Passion should neither be perfunctory nor the byproduct (read: cow plop) of a wandering grass-munching job. The egg may well come before the chicken, but the shit sure (as shit) don’t come before the meal.
Meanwhile (and speaking of), screw James Cameron and the four-stacks he rode in on.
I boycotted that movie for a decade whence its whirlwind release (like a rabid dog upon the bone of good taste), driven to dander by the tide of public love and affliction; his success proof only of self-promotion the likes of which a caterpillar should never see.
For, in somewhat sluggish summation, we all know Kate could’ve fit Leonardo on that door.