Tag Archives: dead-end-Job

Good riddance, Miss Proper Pants!


Sitting on a new bench today. “Variety” as they say is the spice of life. And in a life as dull as mine even a new lunchtime seat makes all the difference.

Tuesday is team-meeting day, and in it I learned that “Miss Proper Pants” and “Obnoxious Fucktard” will soon be leaving us (tomorrow!) to be real full-time employees in “Customer Relations” (compared to us enslaved contractors, that is, with no health insurance and no paid holidays).

I could have applied for that job myself, but dealing with entitled angry customers on the phone all day?! No thanks! I’ll take contractor slavery over that any time.

Also, I’m glad to be getting rid of “Miss Proper Pants” and “Obnoxious Fucktard”, and I had no desire to be around them in a different department. “Obnoxious Fucktard” has issues with women, and he especially had issues with me because my customer satisfaction surveys were better than his. He just could not understand why. He seems to be completely unaware of his obnoxiousness fucktardedness which clearly spills through into the emails to customers.

And “Miss Proper Pants”, ooh, where to get started with her? She is the worst kind of woman. The kind who espouses feminist principles but who is anything but a feminist in her actions. A supposedly tolerant and liberal petson who is a stranger to the meaning of either of these adjectives.

She owes her monicker to the fact that she plays by the rules to an ingratiating and nauseating extent. I am not against playing “the game” per se, but I won’t do it if I think it’s a stupid or unfair game, or if I don’t like the rules. Good riddance to the self-righteous bitch I say.

Back at the altar


So here I am back at my sacrificial altar, having a less-than-appetising lunch of leftovers from last night’s take-away. My “bucolic” reveries have been interrupted by two people so far. I’m surprised more people don’t come out here from the office. But Americans are wusses when it come to heat, and they’re scared of their own sweat.

I’ve fallen off the NaBloPoMo bandwagon, so the urge not to post is strong.

I’m feeling hungover after getting together with my new friend from Pittsburg with whom I hope to make music. I only had two Bud-Lites, but, on last night’s empty stomach, even that was enough to make me feel nauseous today. I will drink Bud-Lite if that’s the only thing that’s on offer but it seems like such a pointless beverage really. It’s poor quality and it tastes like dish water. Why even bother buying it? I know I’m an elitist, but there’s part of me that looks down on the Bud-Lite drinkers of this world.

I don’t know how things are going to pan out music-wise with this guy. I have a feeling that I need someone with more direction who knows what he’s doing.

Of course, what I really need to do is to make music myself to accompany my vocals and learn how to record it, too. I’m taking piano lessons for that reason but it’s such slow going. And I haven’t even attempted to use GarageBand yet. Even though it must be the most user-friendly and simple music software around, I’m still intimidated by the technology. Plus, I need money for a mic and an audio interface….money I don’t have.

All of my goals seem so unattainable. Like I said in my last post, I wish that someone could just take over my life and tell me what to do.

And back to the office it is for 5 more hours of mind-numbing work.

Stupid Phone


 

My Smartphone clearly does not live up to its name. I spent lunch writing a post (lying on my back on my little stone looking up at the sun shining through the trees) but my phone died. Not to worry, I thought, my iPhone will surely save the draft but, no, it appears to have disappeared for good.

I wish I could say I felt it mattered, but it doesn’t. I come home from work, and I have got absolutely nothing to say about my day.  I cried a little again today because the manager sent round his daily report of the team’s stats, and there was my “EPH” (emails per hour) in big, red writing. The red writing is for those of us who do not meet the EPH goals. Of course, I don’t care really about these stupid stats; it just seems so symbolic of my life right now that I am being measured against the number of ridiculous emails I can send out per hour.

I’m feeling better now – if you can call feeling “bleh”  better – but earlier, just after my phone died, some guy passed by me as I lay on my little stone, and it occurred to me that he could probably get away with murdering me right there and then. The lake and the trail are not far away from civilization at all…but still. It also occurred to me that I might not even mind being murdered. Feeling somebody’s hands close around my throat in a vice-like grip might be the most exciting thing that’s happened to me in ages.

Considering the way I feel about my life right now, hell, I might not even fight back.

Emails per Hour


I have got ten minutes before I have to head back to the office. I’m sitting on my arse in the middle of the woods. There was a large stone I was planning on sitting on but somebody was actually napping on it. Rather annoying – I like to imagine I’m all alone in the middle of the wilderness. Now I’ve just been interrupted by a dog-walker! Ugh! But there is some sort of bird-of-prey flying above (a hawk?) and I’m ecstatic! Nature!

 Rather uninspired picture of stone where I do
my lunch-time blogging

There was a team meeting today in which all the manager talked about was “EPH”, office lingo for “emails per hour”. We’re all supposed to be doing at least 8 emails per hour. I’ve barely never hit that goal which is sort of OK – for now – because I’m the CSAT Queen (customer satisfaction, that is). I’m the slowest person on the team by far, especially now since we’ve switched to doing German emails. It’s not my native language, and so writing in German just takes longer.

We are supposed to send out “cans” to customers, i.e. “canned responses”,  which we customise accordingly. I’m slow because I tailor my responses as much as humanly possible. You may laugh but, in my own small way, I feel that I’m striking a blow against Capitalism. No, I will not be a fucking robotic, personality-less customer service agent; no, dear customer, you are not just some anonymous person I don’t give a fuck about. We are both people, goddamnit, and i will treat you as such. If Mrs Cooper enquires about her order, and mentions her bunions, I will ask about her bloody bunions, and hope she’s OK!

I wonder how long I can get away with being so slow? My days might be numbered.