Self loathing and other cheap hobbies

You wanna know what's worse than getting a verbal smackdown by your superiors about your ability to do your job? Getting a compliment that's meant for someone else.

Of course, I hate my job, and it hates me. But in the end, I get upset with myself that I have to have a copy editor amble over to me to go over such a rookie thing as not pruning out old data. It's embarrassing, it's kinda petty, and I wish it didn't bother me so. Personally, I thought I handled her comments with a cool Zen grace, absorbing the criticism without kissing the razors that were sandwiched in her words. But it got to me. I grumble and wish I was, I dunno, better and didn't make as many errors. Consoling yourself with the fact that most of the time you're clean and perfect isn't going to help because in cases like this, defending yourself reduces you to a whiny shell of a peon whose feeble protests won't stop your accuser from rolling right over you.

I hate my job because it's a million tiny petty things that you have to pay attention to, and it's draining all the energy that I reserve for more important life-affirming endeavors. Herding cats like this would be more fun if you loved the cats you were herding. To paraphrase the license plate holder, I'd rather be fretting over my creativity.

Very little writing done last night because my computer kept freaking out on me. I think it knows about my newfound lust for Apple's new G5, although I should just stick to the laptop. In all honesty, our computer is about three years old, and I imagine it is just a junkyard of fragmented files dragging down performance. If I had my way, I'd get my wife a nice compact Mac for her writing/music listening thing and I'd get my bad self a Powerbook. After all, all I need is a laptop. And proper spelling and grammar skills. And an attention span longer than a hummingbird. And about six extra hours in the day.

Song of the Day: "Teardrop," by Massive Attack.

P.S. Would the co-worker with the "Ride of the Valkyries" ring tone on his/her cell phone, the one that goes off every three minutes and is left to ring its whiny-tinny ring for a good 30 seconds at a spell, please flush the phone down the nearest toilet? Thanks. You're not Robert Duvall and this isn't "Apocalypse Now."