Friday, June 22, 2007

shaking in my boots

I'm sitting at my table with the computer stuck in front of my face or my face stuck in front of the computer. My hands glued to the keyboard. My ass glued to the cushioned wooden chair. Any part of me possible glued down as much as possible because I'm shaking in my boots, if I had boots on, seriously. My insides are jiggling around trying to fall out and I have to hold them in. Like when you have to squeeze in a terd. So I'm gluing myself down.

The reason? I took a job today. The one I wrote about yesterday. Art sales. After seven fucking months, I've got a job. Hurray, right? Doesn't sound half bad, either. I bet I could make pretty good money. Big Bossman X said he expects his sales people to take home at least a couple G's every two weeks. $3000-$4000/mo ain't half bad, right? But I said yes, and I have to start monday or tuesday.

De ting is, I'm also in conversation with a woman who could potentially give me a job that would further my career dream. An editing/proofreading job. She told me today, when I begged her to and after I took the job and started immediately to regret it and feel an ominous cloud with an angry stormy personality inch its way overtop of me who, I know, is going to start raining on me alone whenever i move, like in the cartoons. Oh yeah, she told me today she could make a space to interview me early next week.

But Bossman X told me he needed me to start asap because he's already under heat from the artist for being understaffed. This job I just took is all about the money. Three times in our conversation he told me how important money is to this corporation... "As long as you make money, then I make money. That makes everyone happy..." and "I hope we can make this a financially viable relationship" and "As long as you're making money, it's all good." God. Why the focus on making money. But the artist who's work I will be selling was called, by my interviewer, "a commecial artist" as opposed to a fine artist. So I guess it's all about the money. And whatever. Isn't that why we all work, ultimately? Ok, but still, I hope Dr. Editing Lady writes me back soon so I can call my Money Mongers back and tell them to either postpone my work start date or goodbye.


I'm drinking coffee which doesn't help. I want to scream which would probably help but my neighbors might be put out. I better stop writing, it's making me even more nervous.

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