(*Image sourced from and credited to someecards.com*)
You are really, really, really rubbish at it. If any of you have a Grandma like mine, you will have heard the phrase 'if at first you don't succeed, try, try, try again' on countless occasions. Unfortunately, such sentiment isn't always applicable to the reality of living as an actual human. You may well try, try, and try again, and you may well still be really, really, really rubbish. Welcome to the human experience. Being really, really, really rubbish is never much fun. Save yourself; I dare you.
You've started putting gin in your porridge. Pre 8am alcoholism has become a habitual remedy to relieve the pain of your obliterated soul. By 9am, you're just about ready to stand beneath the bleak and dismal cloud of disappointment that will haunt you until your shift is over. You might even embrace the benefits of your temporary delirium and cartwheel all the way there, slurring 'happy fwiiiiidaaaaaaaay!', even though it's Tuesday, and you haven't been certain of happiness since you won the school obstacle race in 1999.
You have serious job envy. You want everyone else's job but your own. As your fellow employed chums share stories about their 'AH-mazing', 'rewarding' and 'quite fun, actually!' jobs, you sit there, weeping on the inside, wondering when you might be able to offer the same exaggerated enthusiasm. If you did exaggerate, your job would be mild torture at best. Even your Uncle Margaret's job has newfound seductive qualities. Your Uncle Margaret taste tests duck embryos and fried tarantulas. Who fancies a pre-breakdown snack?
You avoid staff rooms like the plague. You can't think of anything worse than making small talk about 'the bloody English weather, shame we can't solve that with a flow process, ha ha' and listening to 'geeeeeeeeeeeeezA!' Gary's daily 'GUESS WHO'S GETTING SOME GASH THIS WEEKEND!' newsflash, which is always accompanied by a weird, celebratory fist pump. Not you buddy; not you. Your colleagues are the most irritating, insane, ridiculous human beings you have ever encountered. You find it near-impossible to offer pleasantries to the coworkers you never really liked, and so you spend your lunch breaks sat at your desk, alone, staring at the wall whilst you eat a bacon sandwich, cursing the spectrum of human creation.
You don't look like you anymore. You've put on 10 mighty stone since you started this job; 10 stone of 'well, there's nothing better to do' custard creams and those 'if-he-says-gash-one-more-time-I'm-going-to-punch-him' bacon sandwiches. You have dull, grey hairs sprouting from your miserable scalp. You have premature wrinkles and persistent sweat patches. And as if you weren't already unattractive enough, you recently had to fight off your Grandma as she tried to deposit her speckled bananas into the bags beneath your eyes. 'I'm sexy and I know it,' said you, never.
Work life is so boring that you've started fantasising about mundane events. Your fantasies used to be fully reflective of your intrinsic, sexual desires. Every fantasy, at least, had the commonality of minimal clothing and somebody really, really, really attractive. Nowadays, you find that a warm crest of arousal presents itself at even the idle thought of going to the dentist about your receding gumlines. 'Let's get it on......to a toothbrush to reverse this periodontal damage'. Marvin Gaye would be ashamed of you.
Your excuses for being late/having time off are becoming ridiculous. This morning, you were late because you got chased by an eager unicorn who was keen to tell you all about rainbows and debate the existence of Father Christmas. Yesterday, you couldn't come in because you ducked into your wardrobe to pull out an old pair of clogs and ended up lost in Narnia. Your Granddad has died 12 times in 3 years. You have weaved an intricate web of lies, deceit and lunacy. You are bonkers. Your job has made you bonkers. Get out of there before the biscuity llamas thrust upon you their 2-year subscription to whacky-wooky-waheeeeey club.
You are under-appreciated/undervalued. For whatever reason, your manager thinks you are severely incapable of doing anything other than, erm, the shit jobs. Your job description consists of scrubbing cracked toilet seats with a decade-old toothbrush, sealing second-hand envelopes, and trying not to kill anyone. Your manager also calls you Steveo, even though your name badge, in hideous mauve ink, clearly reads 'ROSIE', and you have a vagina.
You are getting urges to do inappropriate things in meetings. You've become explicitly aware of the bizarreness of these mundane, superficial constructions of reality during which human beings try to adhere to the realms of formality and pretend that this lengthy, monotone speech about something completely disengaging is 'YARS, very engaging.' If you hear 2 more managerial metaphors, you'll be taking your clothes off and performing a sole rendition of the Macarena. Call it a day. Your dignity will thank you.
You've started saying things like 'it's one of those days, 'FML', and 'I can't wait to get out of there'. In fact, you've not only started saying them, you say them all the time. You don't say anything else. You are an unconscious prisoner of your own hatred, constantly rattling on about the one thing that you can't stand talking about. You haven't had a proper conversation since last July. FYL, indeed.