|
 CATEGORIES ::
>
Blah!
>
Movies, Music, Guitars & Comics
>
Moviemaking Muppet Madness
>
Downloads
>
Fiction
>
Random Research
>
Recollections
>
Friends & Foes
>
Shocking Asia BLOOD, SWEAT N' TEARS ::
>
FYI Entertainment
>
FYI Studios
>
Y2k
>
Triple 6 Poser
>
Ciplak
>
A Girl Named Jane ONLINE PRESENCE ::
>
Friendster
>
MySpace
>
Flickr FRIENDS' BLOGS ::
>
Albert
>
Az
>
Cynthia
>
Debbie
>
Eddy
>
Effigy
>
Helenasia
>
Izuwan
>
Jordan
>
Kevin
>
Pete Teo
>
Rina
>
Shelley
>
The Visitor |
The Paranoia Sets In
I am sat at my desk trying to look like I'm furiously at work. It's 5.30pm, which is the 'official' time of works-end, but this is an ad agency. Nobody leaves at 5.30. If you try, someone will most probably ask you whether you applied for leave.
The problem is I have no work to do.
It's the end of my 2nd week here, and things aren't looking good. Paranoia is setting in. Do I not have any work because there are simply no jobs to give me? Or, based on my past work over these two weeks, they'd rather not have some amateur-hack attempting the copy and costing them more time as they have to figure out the copy that I should've been able to write if I had a brain in my skull as opposed to a wet sponge filled with strawberry preserve.
I'm worried. I'll admit it here and now. I'm fucking worried. I'm here on contract. There is no need for them to re-hire me on a long-term basis after the three months unless they are impressed. I don't think they're impressed.
Fuck, I even had a dream about it, so my subconcious must be in a frenzy as we speak. It went something like this:
I was at work, typing away, doing work, ladidadida... and I was passing by the traffic department (the people that make sure everything flows properly and is filed and what have you), and one of the heads of the traffic department pulls me over and remarks that I have a very weak score, as if the work I'd been doing had been a test, and I'd obviously failed. I stand there, upon hearing the news, blur as ever, not being able to say a asingle word, wondering what I'm going to do now.
I'd like to think positive, but the paranoia is real. It's not big pieces of body copy that worries me, it's the fucking taglines and headlines and call-to-action bollocks that fucks me over like a large man in a vest named Bubba. To get all that info into a short, sweet sentence is proving to be harder than a paedophilic elephant's cock at a screening of 'Dumbo'.
That's why you'll notice a lot of blogs on this day. What the fuck else am I gonna do? Fuck fuckity fuck fuck. Poo.
|
|
|
To date 0 Comment(s)
TrackBack-URL
|
