The People I Work With

Well, I must clarify that I shall only be working with them for another week. Plus one day. 6 days, all together – 8 if you count the weekend (which will not, I repeat: not!, be spent at work.). Eight and a half if you count today. Today isn’t over yet.

Anywho.

I keep making threats that I’m going to write about what they say and do in my TV show (that has yet to be written). In turn, they threaten me with a law suit if I do. Ah, what lovely banter! What I don’t think they get though is just how serious I am about the whole thing. I have to write about my boss’ boss who yelled at me and made me go all panick-attacky. I also have to mention our Fabio lookalike. He just started a few weeks back, so I don’t have much dirt on him (other than the fact that he’s some cougar’s boyfriend. Or they broke up. Who cares really.). But, I figure the less I know about him, the more I can make up. For example – he’s a true egotistical, narcissistic asshole. That might be true, but chances are it isn’t (oh, the lies!).

I also have to mention the general idiocy and crap we have to put up with. I hate working in an office.

Why, when I watched The Office (UK), didn’t I think to go “Oooh, fancy that, working in an office is really kind of… crap.”. But no. I discarded it as a funny TV show. “It’s just made up”, I thought to myself. No, it is not! It really can be that bad. Not every day, obviously, but in general it’s pretty shitty.

Memo to self: never work in an office ever again. Hate it.

Oh, and I have a new dream now too. I want to make a documentary and win an Oscar for it. So all I need now is a camera, something to film, learn how to edit and get a microphone for voiceovers (and figure out to put my voice on top of images), get an agent, market and publish it, make people love it and think it’s the most genious thing ever, make lots of money, donate the proceeds to a charity (liar.), get nominated for an Oscar and then…. win it.

Does Michael Moore need an intern?

Making a Long Story Short

About one year ago I had the genius idea of moving to the US. Little did I know then that it would take me an entire year of waiting and preparation before I could go. Since making the decision, I’ve had shots, taken tests, interviewed for a visa, gotten a visa, booked a plane ticket, gotten a place to stay, and obviously… applied to a school – and gotten accepted too.

So now it’s almost July again. 2010. Two more weeks of work and I’m off. Of course, now I’m scared that they won’t let me in. No reason for this, of course, it would just be my great luck to be dismissed after working on something for a year. I’ve got my fingers crossed that this won’t happen, and I plan on keeping them crossed for another 15 days.

My main motivation all along has been to find myself. To figure out what I’m supposed to do with my life in order to achieve some sense of contentment and/or happiness. Either or. Whichever one comes first.

I still believe I’m born to entertain, so we’ll see how that pans out. Speaking of which… I found the first two pages of a script I wrote a few years back today. It wasn’t great, but I did like that my first thought was “Did I really write this?”. I had forgotten all about it. I try writing lengthy pieces that are funny, but they end up as a drama two or three chapters or episodes in. Luckily I hadn’t gotten that far with this script, so it still had some funny bits, but I think I’m going to leave that behind and start fresh. I like starting fresh. It’s… refreshing.

Same day, still August, 2009

I just remembered that when I was 18 and first had  to make a decision as to what to study, I wanted to go for Journalism. However, where I’m from you need like a million points to even be considered for that. So, already I love America, because guess what? They’ll let me study Journalism! And that at a Master’s level!

I’m amazed at that. Now I just need to find out what I need to do in order to make this happen. And I need to figure out where in the US I want to live. It can’t be too hot. So we’ve narrowed that down already. And a school where furnished apartments are available will be a plus. I can’t schlepp my furniture across the Atlantic. Nor do I have the funds to decorate an apartment. Or friends to help me move in should it come to that.

Must do more research.

The next day, August, 2009

I told a colleague that I want to go to America earlier today. I told her it was a hassle. She said that I should study something. Brilliant! Why didn’t I think of that? Be a student.

OK. Upwards and onwards. What would you like to study, Annie?

Oh God. More choices.

A Day in August, 2009

Random thought; I want to live in America. Another random thought; I want to do something fulfilling, something that makes me happy. OK, so that last thought is not so random. What do I like to do? I like to write. And make people laugh. Am I born to entertain? Perhaps. So why then am I stuck in an office? Choices. You make choices in life. I’ve definitely, without a shadow of a doubt, made a wrong one. I’m not happy. Or content. It’s time to make a change. I’m moving to America.

OK, Annie, I like your determination, but how do you see this happening? I don’t know. I looked online for ways to get a visa. There is obviously the standard tourist visa-waiver-thingy, but they don’t allow you to do anything with that – except be a tourist. For 90 days or less. The other visas seem like they’re impossible to get.

I’m sure there’s a smart guy out there who once said that “Dreams – they’re worth working for.”. If no one has said this ever – feel free to quote me on that in the future. Of course, there’s no way of knowing if this is true or not. I might have an awful time in America. Be hated on. Not make any friends. Go home after two months hating that I even thought of such a ridiculous idea… America. Psssh.

Memo to self: must stay focused. You want to go the US. If only for a little while. Find a way to do it, and then do it.

Monday, that following week, still in 2009. Spoiler alert; it’s July!

I make good money. For a twenty-five year old I’m doing pretty well. I’ve gone to school, studied something I couldn’t care less about (because it felt like the right thing to do) – and thus getting awful grades, I’ve been an exchange student, travelled to a few countries, kissed random boys that I have never seen again. I have good friends and a loving, supporting, family, and I’ve been so drunk I couldn’t see or feel. I’ve written and produced school performances, acted, sung, even danced (believe it or not – you might believe it if you don’t know me) on a stage – loved every minute of it too, except that time I did karaoke sober (stage fright kicked in, and I’ve stayed away from anything that could end up with public embarrassment ever since. Not good, as I think I would be a wonderful public figure.). The karaoke thing happened when I was 19. Seeing as how I’m 25 now, I probably should get over it sometime soon.

With all this talent in my bones, what do I do for a living now, you ask? I work in finance. You know; the big scary industry of nothingness.

If Finance was a contender on Big Brother, he’d be the mimbo (male bimbo = mimbo) running around flexing his muscles every chance he’d get. Always telling everyone how wonderful, strong, hard-working and confident he is whilst never giving up his straight and very intimidating face.

On the inside though, he’s a pussy. A soft man with a gentle soul who wants to cuddle. Nothing wrong with that, of course, but it might look as though Finance has been cuddling and holding hands with the wrong crowd for some time now. I enjoy a steady income just as much as the next average person, but I can’t help to sometimes think that this Financial Crisis should hit me with some sort of force. Is it too much to ask not to be swamped with work? Or to maybe get downsized just a little bit? Saying that, I realize, is like swearing in church. Here I am – a member of a fine financial institution which is suffering from hardship asking for the crisis to release me from employment. At least a little bit.

There might be a financial crisis going on in the world, but you certainly couldn’t tell by the paper heaps surrounding me at work. If the paper on my desk could talk, it would be crying. Purely out of neglect. I left my desk today for a few minutes, just to get some coffee, and when I came back, a mere two minutes later, 19 people had decided to e-mail me. 19! In two minutes! Did they all want to say ’hello, how are you, please enjoy your coffee.’? No. They wanted me to fix something – to snap my fingers and make something wonderful happen. And I did.

The last couple of weeks has been crazy. Crazy good for the company, crazy bad for me. On a more positive note I can’t wait to find what I’m looking for in life. I don’t think I’d mind working as long as work is enjoyable and rewarding. And it pays extremely well. And I get an assistant who does things for me. The things that’s simply beneath me to do. I would love that. Ah yes, dreams! What would we be without dreams?

Thursday, still July, same week

7:29: Wake up, one and a half hours too late. Shit.

8:42: Arrive at work – 42 minutes past what is considered acceptable

8:43: Spill coffee all over my white top. Fuck.

Some days are not meant to be lived. They’re suffocating, awful days that consists of surviving. I don’t want to be a survivor.

A Tuesday in July, 2009

I woke up again this morning. I’m always stunned when that happens. At least I have been lately. The mere fact that I’m alive shocks me every morning, and the fact that I’m shocked about being alive… well, that shocks me even more. It might have something to do with my alarms. In case I don’t wake up from the loud buzz from my flight alarm simulating clock radio, there’s always Duran Duran’s “Ordinary World” winging from my cell phone to kick start the day. Oh dear God almighty, how I hate that song! It’s been playing now every morning from Monday to Friday at 6am for two years. The reason for downloading it was purely out of love. Love of that lovely song. Now it’s hate. But, for some reason, I haven’t changed it. And I probably won’t.

I’m stuck. At least that’s what my head is telling the rest of my body. “You are stuck”, says the Head to my unexpected Body, “you will remain average for ever”. Then it goes on and on about how boring I’ve become, and how today is the first day of the rest of my last days on earth. Like life should be over soon. That there is no more fun. Just work. And just having to get up at six every morning to a job I don’t really like. OK, that was a lie. I hate my job. It’s pointless and utterly excruciating. Its hard being 25 and feeling like life is over. So I just lay here, like I do every morning, in a self-pitying fetal position, hoping that I’ve got the flu or a really bad cold so that I can stay home from work. But no. I’m healthy as a horse running through a rain of gunshots, and not getting hit by any of the bullets. Then I get up.

I sometimes feel as though my body’s real age is somewhere between 78 and 89 years old. Like this morning, went I got up, I could swear I heard something squeal and snap. You know, like I should stop moving all together and get one of those electric wheelchairs that come with a built-in chin control. Imagine running the world with just the tip of your chin! By world I of course mean the street between your flat and your grocery store. My world, the one between the shop, bus stop, work and the bar, is run by what seems to be sheer goodwill. It’s not a great neighborhood. It might not even classify as “not great”. That depends on whose passing judge, of course. Let’s just say that you wouldn’t stay here unless you were a druggie, a criminal, a prostitute or really good friends with someone who fits either description. I live here because when I moved I was slightly on the poor side. However flawed it might be I really do love this neighborhood. It’s pretty close to everything that’s something in a city, and only a nine minute bus ride to the city centre. Of course, what isn’t so great is when you see someone shooting up, or when random prostitutes are hiding in your laundry room – that part can be slightly daunting. The love I feel for my home probably comes from living alone for the first time in my life.

Generally, I don’t mind people, but some people have a tendency to get under your skin. Especially when you’re living with them. In other words, I got tired of doing someone else’s dishes, arguing about who’s turn it was to clean, or which movie we would watch on the one TV that we all shared, and sneaking in toilet paper. After you’ve realized your supplying toilet paper for the entire shared house, anyone would feel obliged to start sneaking it in. And out. You don’t leave toilet paper out like that, before you know it the wolves that are your fellow tenants will be all over it like a fresh piece of meat. It’s been three years since I moved out of that depleting shared house. It would be a lie to say that I miss it. “I miss it”, I just told myself, and it turns out I’m a liar now. The toilet paper in my bathroom is all my own, I don’t have to shower at a specific time every morning, I do my dishes when I feel like it, clean when it’s dirty and have people over when I want. Its weird how possessive one gets over something as cheap (if you get the cheap kind – with the rough, out-in-the-wood sandpaper feel to it) and ordinary as toilet paper when squeezed into a corner.

The apartment I’m renting is my castle, and I am the king. “Apartment” – it’s more like a room with some added benefits, like a bathroom and a kitchen area. But still, it’s my very own “apartment”, and I love it! Something bigger and not so close to the refuse storage area (just trash, basically, in a trashy room, right underneath my window – the odour is slightly worse during the summer months than when its cold outside.) would be good though. And also, maybe not so close to a busy street. I don’t have dust anymore around my windows, just black powder-like debris. It comes from the exhaust of the cars and busses, I guess. Yeah, my apartment sounds more like a waste plant than a place of comfort and homely refuge, doesn’t it? I might get cancer if I stay here much longer – but if it’ll get me out of work for a little while, then… no. No! I didn’t mean that. Not cancer. Just the flu. Like a little bit. A cold, even. Anything that’s not lethal. All I want is a couple of days off. Lied again; I want to quit. Leave, and then never look back.

But how do you start fresh with something so fresh you don’t even know you have a talent for it? Sometimes all you need is faith and dumb luck, I guess. I have neither. And it’s time to snap out of it. The logic of snapping out of it is vivid, but the actual snapping out part hasn’t occurred yet. Neither do I know how to begin the process of snapping out. But with God, and the prostitutes hiding in my laundry room, as my witnesses, I really am trying!