You can’t handle the truth!

I think my mojo has sprung a leak.

I can hear the soft whoosh and whine of it deflating, like an airbed long used by porcupines. Though, my hope is it’s more of a falter than ‘flater and will rise again (like John Mayer from the ashes of dignity and seldom silence).

I have applied for a multitude of jobs this past month, with a view to leaving these fuckers, this industry and (Tori Amos willing) office work entirely behind. My resolve resplendent and my direction decided, the path before me remains as oblique and maddening as the plot of any Oliver Stone movie. I have trawled endless websites in search of my escape hatch, yet only the tiniest slivers of light promise exit. With no space large enough for me to fit through, I’m left to Mary Lennox; to peek through the vignette and wistfully wonder …

‘What’s through there? How do I gain entry to the secret garden?’

I don’t suppose I’ll be granted cobwebbed key via recondite room in the downdrafts of my metaphorical mansion, but that would feel most fitting. The descent of any avid moviegoer is the expectation to live in plot rather than real life; where musical montage bears the only reference to hardship and editing is your most fair-weather of friends.

Ironic then, that it’s into film and television that I foray … at the entriest of levels whilst attempting to keep my salary sane and thus refrain from becoming one of the great unwashed. If only I knew which of these vine-covered vignettes would take me there. If only poetic rhetoric were a stepping stone, rather than a sinking one. But I suspect my missing montage aint gonna crack it. (Fuck it.)

Back to reality then, with no more a starling Sentimental’s lament!

My next attempt is to piece together a living – one part old job, one part new. Part-time flagellation to support my daydream dazing and pursuit thereof. Lego careering, I like to call it. Such is the yellow brick road upon which I set my ruby slipper, with some sense of urgency and rising panic. For, in recent days, my workplace has become home to a pack of jackals who have my juicy hindquarters in their sights. And, as my fellow comrades resign and leave me behind to weather the storm solo, I can feel the last vestiges of my fortitude slip seemingly from sight into the Lake of Shining Waters below.

About the wuc

I'm a chick living in Australia, working for the man. I hate office work with a passion usually reserved for James Cameron, but somehow I ended up with a career behind a desk, stapling my forehead at random intervals.

26 Responses to “You can’t handle the truth!”

  1. Two words for your new career: YouTube channel.

  2. You had me going there, I was thinking film directors assistant, Director next, how dare you inflate my hopes of commenting on your film set blog!

  3. Mah favourite, film negative emulsion scraping, virtuality snipping, mirrorin’ gal really is back! Holding the gel to the light and engaging my sprockets and projecting laughter in my private rushes room.
    – x

  4. Good luck. I don’t have much more to offer. You already know that there are a lot of hours in the workday – pretty hard to spend them there if you don’t like what you do. And one does get used to it–still–it’s a big world – hope you find your corner–

wot say you?

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