Sunday, November 14, 2004

Work is officially making me feel physically ill. Probably mentally ill too. Just not as easy to notice the symptoms of that one. I'm fast approaching my 13th year of the IRS. A job that was supposed to be something to tide me over until I got a "real" job. Well, the job itself is real. The majority of the people there, however, are turning into a nightmare. I don't know for how much longer I'm going to be able to tolerate it there. A lot of stuff is going on, and I find that I don't have it in me any more to put up with it. I can't stand the whining, I can't stand the people who steadfastly refuse to work, I can't stand the "upper management" continuing ignorance of the aforementioned, and thinking people who are like-minded to myself have something wrong with them for feeling bad about being there. These are your tax dollars, people. They're being wasted by the millions on a daily basis by people who you wouldn't want fixing your McMeal at a McBurger joint. In fact, in many cases, the McBurger joint would be closed due to health code violations if any of these mutants saw the light of day. And of course, most of the burgers would have bits of sponge, or perhaps a mop, or a hat, or something equally unmentionable in it. Why? Because, quite simply: "it's not mine, so I don't care".

Well, I can't do that. I can't keep banging my head against the proverbial wall any longer. I'm angry, I'm frustrated, and very, very tired. If there are any people out there who need someone with a severly logical mind who just saved the IRS $7 million and didn't get squat for it, please send me an e-mail. I'll do what I can to save you $7 million too. Hell, maybe even more if you bother to say "thank you" to me once in a while. Or even once. (Yes, I'm *that* beaten down.)

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