Here I sit (broken hearted�), at home in the computer room, going through my list of bookmarked journals and typing away at an entry while waiting for an email response from yet another temp agency. This time it�s different, since my resume was actually requested by the branch manager, a very good friend of a rather influential friend of mine.

More than once Paul has said to me over drinks at our local pub,

�It�s not what you know, it�s who you know! Heed my words, child!�

I�ve always known it was true, but the alcohol compelled him to drive that point home time and again. I have developed so many skill sets over the years it�s laughable, yet I�m unable to come to terms with the employment system in this country. So, no job. The only place I�ve been able to get to pay me is the local college, but you�ve read enough of my vitriol about those mongrels so I�ll leave it at that. Atmosphere and a positive work environment are far more important than money; anybody who�s been subjected to emotional and verbal abuse in their place of employ will tell you for free.

Back in April, Paul mentioned that his neighbour was recently promoted to branch manager of a reputable agency, and he would personally hand over my resume with a verbal recommendation if I liked. Well, I liked, so I whipped off a resume on beautiful paper and waited for the magic to begin. I imagined a placement in an office with creative, kind and happy people, one where I would never be forced to wear hose ever again. Employees would bring their dogs to work and I would kick ass with business orders on top of everything else. Meetings would not be held behind closed doors, there would be no union and the President would know everybody�s name. Obviously, that�s my ideal. No, I lie. My absolute ideal is to narrate documentaries, but as I don�t see that happening, I will simply have to be content with the above scenario.

Three months pass. My bank account balance dwindles to the point where I am forced to eat Sir Robin�s minstrels and a few of the doggie treats. The Boy is beginning to show signs of actually speaking his mind on the topic of my unemployment when, one day in early July, the phone, she rings! It is my old boss from The College of Our Discontent, wanting to know if I�m working at the moment. It briefly occurs to me to fib and save myself from the dysfunctional hell I�ve escaped from twice before, but ultimately I�m loyal to the woman who fought to keep me there for years. I agree to come back. Once I get back, however, the mere presence of me causes a shitstorm of epic proportions. So, I was sent home to await a response from the Loser Brigade that is the Human Resources Department. My boss needs to know her hiring rights and the rights of the pitiable slackasses in the office who also applied for my position; it�s been three days so far.

Before you start to rethink my merit as a human being based on the reaction of the afore-mentioned hellhounds and ditch this journal for good, please remember what a friend of mine pointed out to me as I dried my tears (again) at my cubicle,

�You don�t make them look bad, they make themselves look bad.�

My production stats have always kicked their stats up and down the block, in part because I don�t view each day as a new opportunity for an all-day coffee clache/bitch session/grievance strategy meeting. This apparently makes me a bad person. And for a long while I bought into that perception. Well, no more: I want out.

So I�ve become a wee bit more aggressive in my job hunting techniques. I call or visit the suspect agencies who already posses a copy of my resume and my through-the-roof test scores, speaking with managers and wanting to know why my resume is apparently unacceptable. I chew up their hastily-concocted excuses and spit them out on their desks, I name-drop with reckless abandon. I�m a valuable human being, damnit, and I will not be ignored.

Cindy had better call me back with something.

Posted at 1:56 p.m.