I hate my job.

I hate my job.

Have I mentioned that lately?

I hate what I do, and I hate the people I have to work with, and I hate my boss, and I . . . just hate. It. All.

I hate the residents who come running in like they're real doctors or something, and expect me to bow and scrape to them.

I hate the real doctors who act like assholes just because four years of medical school and an obscene amount of money makes them better people or something.

I hate the students who are going to be doctors, who are the dumbest things that ever walked the planet. These people are *frightening*. They can't even alphabetize a row of books correctly, and yet they're going to be perfoming actual *surgery* on some hapless victim -- I mean, patient -- in a few more years?

I hate my co-workers. My office-mate in particular, who has been out of work for a blissful ten days for surgery to repair a hammertoe. Today she returned.

Dammit.

It's my considered opinion that, if you cannot perform your job duties, you have no fuckin' business being at work.

You *especially* do not have the right to come to work, whine about how you need the money, and then sit in your goddamn desk chair like some kind of princess and order me around to do your fucking work for you.

It's called "short-term disability". I suggest you GO THE FUCK home and make friends with the concept.

I hate that my boss, who rivals any demon on the Hellmouth for sheer creative bitchiness, thinks that all this crap is perfectly acceptable. Worse, she thinks that I'm a troublemaker for pointing out that the behavior of my office-mate is not only bad for morale, but is truly egregious from a business point of view.

See, my office-mate is getting her library school degree, so that means that she can do no wrong. All slack is cut to her, all accommodations met and exceeded. I just happen to be some loser who can't come up with the funding to pay my way through grad school. I hate that. I hate my boss, too.

I hate that my job means the same thing as working at McDonald's. It's just that I hand out books instead of burgers. But the attitude of the clientele is the same, the job requires about the same skill level, and it doesn't pay *that* much more. Center City Mickey D's is up to ten dollars an hour, now. And you don't even have to speak English.

I mean that literally -- I'm not just making some crack about Ghetto Slang versus The King's English. I'm talking about people who jabber away in some obscure Spanish dialect that I bloody well never learned, and I don't think I should have to learn in order to get my food made WITHOUT pickles or onions.

I hate pickles and onions. I really do.

And right now, I think I hate most of the world.

I think I need a drink.

Purity tests

This things are amazing.

thespark.com test tells me that I am 52% pure. I guess because I don't do drugs. There were an awful lot of questions about drug and alcohol use. And using drugs during sex, or drinking while in moving vehicles, or having sex in moving vehicles . . . and things like that.

Interesting. And here I was, thinking that I was hopelessly corrupt.

I hear you snickering, D. :)

Guilty pleasures

Is there anyone out there who will actually admit to watching "Looking For Love: Bachelorettes In Alaska"?

It's sort of sickly fascinating . . . you just can't look away.

On one hand, I think that it's only fair, after the debacle of low self-esteem that was "Who Wants To Marry A Millionaire?"

On the other, I think it's a truly reprehensible level to which to sink.

I suppose that if you look at it as a game, an opportunity to win a whole herd of money, get laid and maybe meet someone you'd be interested in having an LTR with . . . I guess that it's not so bad.

I feel like, on some deeply feminist level, I should be offended by the very existence of the show. At the same time, I can't help applauding the concept. Hey, nothing wrong with turning the guys into desperate chumps slavering at your heels, right?

I can't stand Rebekah. I know, I know -- we're *supposed* to hate her. Got that. But she drives me nuts. Way too high-maintenance, and much too boy-crazy. One of those women who always made a point of wrapping every man visible around her little finger, to the detriment of other women, even friends.

In case you're wondering . . . yes, I have a good friend like that. Yes, I'm more than a bit jealous of her talent. How do I deal with it? Well . . . lots of times, I just leave her at home when I want a night of flirting and free drinks and possibly, getting laid.

So . . . I get that Rebekah's the competitive one that the men will all be fighting over. Points to Kristian (I forget the redheaded chick's name that he belongs to) for not falling for Rebekah's schtick.

And I get that Celeste? Celine? is supposed to be the cute, sympathetic one. Sissie is the Everywoman, and the redhead is the bitch.

Why are determined, direct, impatient, successful, entertaining, intellectual, amusing women known as bitches? And why do so many of us have red hair?

And why do I so seldom like the way they show us on TV?

Probably because the people running the shows (whether men or women) feel threatened by us.

Which probably explains my bitchy office-mate and demonic boss.

Ha! Take that, you . . . you . . . aw, hell. Wretched people. Robbed me of my vocabulary.

Not to mention my train of thought.

Anyway . . . anyone have any thoughts on the subject? Is "Bachelorettes In Alaska" just good reality-TV fun . . . or yet another sign that the Apocalypse is upon us?

Do post a reply. Inquiring minds want to know.