broken

ok, the bastard'll admit it. i woke up this way. i woke up 2 steps away from buying a pack of camels and smoking my way down to the train station but, instead i spent my morning obsessing. so, since 6:30 this morning, i've been up worrying about our new space. it's a cube farm and some cubes are just like mine heightwise. some of them aren't. and i don't want that. i don't know if i am essentially going to get the same type of seating as other art directors in the building and the bastard isn't usually about keeping up with the jonese but, i don't want to cram all of the look and feel inner workings of selling lots of bullets seven times a year into a space that's half as high and half the size. i have a small enough space as it is and for fuck's sake, i art direct a fucking magazine. the bastard is not an intern. work hasn't gottne me out of bad like this since i worked at interweb week.

so i get into the office and the trainer tells me that my new machine won't be ready today. the trainer is a good guy and since he's from a design pedigree, he actually gives a shit. the new IT guy who we can call....ida know..soulpatch, clearly can't be bothered. he has bigger fish to fry. and to be fair, he's probably getting crap from everyone in the building but, he ain't the first IT guy to say "we'll see" when he means "abso-fucking-lutely not, shiteyes". it just rubs the bastard the wrong way. it doesn't help that the guy who's running all of this down south thinks that we're all a bunch of overentitled assholes who are used to getting what trhey want so fuck them. actually we're a bunch of people who are making magazines on technology that was new in 1995 who happen to live in a city that makes his hometown look like a bag of crap in comparison. okay i never said we weren't assholes.

—the bastard