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. I’ve been looking for a new gig (halfheartedly), and signed up on some of those job web sites. I made sure to put I was only interested in writer jobs. That’s “writer,” with a “w”. Now, several times a week I can scroll through the offerings for “Senior Manager, Remarketing Sales and Service” and “Ex-Athlete? Entry Level Marketing & Sales Management.” Ain’t the internet grand?

    Best of luck in your search.

    • Crack up. What in heckfire?

      Thanks for the search support, my friend. So shall it be the mortar upon which I will rebuild my fort(titude)!

      You know that’s right.

  2. I’d go with that well known purveyor of advice and easer of agony ^^ Aunt Elvis. Is she well known in Oz?
    Yes… Crime would definitely suit. You can make your own hours, wear whatever you like and pursue cinematic dreams in your spare time. Plus the office politics are fairly non-existent, unless you work within an Ocean’s 11/12 type set up, but even then there are advantages that outweigh the odd tussle with a bitchy jackal – Pitt & Clooney to name but two…
    And if it’s any consolation, it was only the looming terror of the big Five-O that got my act sorted.

    • Wucca wucca and an Ocean’s Eleven wucca.

      You certainly make crime seem a clinquant calling of creative consequence. Especially if it comes complete with a charismatic and captivating Clooney. Crack up and contemplative kudos, LWW.

  3. I took some kind of career affinity test in high school, when it was still at least somewhat common to not know what you wanted to be when you grew up. It said I should be a garbageman. Or woman, as the case may be. I maybe should have listened. Instead, though I’m well past the age where it is even remotely acceptable, I still haven’t a clue what I want to do (although I do know I don’t want to do what I’m qualified to do and have already thrown a decade and a half at), let alone how I might get there … and this not knowing what I should damn well know by now repeatedly brings me (and those poor souls that live with me) to the brink of certifiable crazy. It’s a vicious little dance, and the only thing I can say with certainty is that you do need to heed the call, even if only one Lego at a time. That, and there are some prescriptions that might help take the edge off. In the meantime, I am mentally sending you the Space Legos of my youth – they used to be able to solve all my problems.

    • Blessed by thy EastBay.

      You get me. You really get me! (To be said like Stanley Ipkiss.)

      Reading your thoughts was like reading my own, as surely as I’ve called upon the same refrain again and again, in roundabout futility this past decade. I concluded that either the answer never comes or it’s there, simply superbly camouflaged.

      “Heed the call, one Lego at a time” – I like this much.
      It feels positively prescient and possible, thanks chum.

  4. Sorry to hear if your distress, but I must confess I adored your telling of your woes.

  5. Run for the trees! Run for the trees! (I’ve seen jackals take down a gazelle. It wasn’t pretty. Protect thy juicy parts post haste and pronto.)

    Sad irony on plotting the plot. TV children raised to know it all works out before the creds roll. But no role for us. No retakes, no rehearsals, and I can’t find my damn script. Sometimes I think we’re all in an ad-libbed David Lynch dream (cinematography by Soderbergh) and no wonder it makes no sense. (Would someone please yell, “Cut!”)

    Luck with the Legos… I hope you can lego of work!

    • Ah, you do know how to succinctly summarise one’s crusty quandary, don’t you Wyrd (to your mother)?

      You’re quite right of course. I must run, and run fast. I don’t know if I’m gonna make it – not in time for the film’s climax and subsequent explosion (aka my upcoming performance review). It’ll no doubt come down to the wire and I’ll jump clear in the nick of time. (I hope.)

      Meanwhile, ‘missing script’ fist bump and ‘lego of work’ wucca.

  6. Have you considered a life of crime? It’s a growth industry, and there’s travel.

    • Wucca, wucca and a Thomas Crown wucca.

      A simply splendiferous idea, if I can be a ninja thief? (I’ve always wanted to be a ninja) (to be said thoughtfully, and in consideration).

  7. I can and I did handle the truth, and I truly hope you can find a new direction that befits the caliber of The Wuc….good luck to you, although you already know it’s a dog eat dog world out there

    • Wucs. I can always rely on you to handle the truth, yo.

      Thanks for that sincerest and most welcome of luck, I’ll take it!
      May I become the most rabid dog of all.

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