Sometimes you just have to wallow in misery for three or four years before your department finally hires someone you can relate to. No, really, you have to stick it out. It’s not for the money or the security, and it’s certainly not for the job satisfaction, it’s because you have to know if this place really is only slightly less toxic than a Fukushima fish dinner or if it’s just you not being able to cut it.
I’ve been told that it’s definitely not me, but those good souls don’t work there, they can’t understand the daily battle between the minute-by-minute micromanaging, the unyielding workload and my fragile psyche, or fathom the jarring idiosyncrasies of the living alien specimens who dwell within our cube farm.
But sometimes they hire someone who speaks with a Scottish accent all day and can run lines from Doctor Who and Murder By Death and who wears leg warmers on her hands and stops by your desk to do this:
-and you think: “Maybe this will work out.” At the least, you know you’ll finally have someone to drink with.
