08/18/2005 - 11:27 a.m. | two two two two two

I�m sorry to beat a dead horse (That�s a good phrase, is it not? Some landlord used it today, and I sort of laughed), but I am getting fucking furious about this damn housing authority job. Brian (my boss boss) forwarded an e-mail to me from Tosha (the housing authority boss), and the thing has had me in a rage ever since. She kept talking about what a professional place the housing authority is, how fucking professional everybody is, and how I am the only one not holding up that part of the bargain. You fucking cunt. I�m not sure how professional it is to be pointing fingers, but it seems like it�s all anybody does at that place is blame others, and anyone who doesn�t do the same (me, for instance) ends up getting his ass cut down. But I�m about fucking sick of it. I�m sure they like to blame me because I am new and young and part time and marginally attractive, but I�m fairly convinced that anyone they would have hired, put into this same position, would be just as fucked. We�re switching from one horrible system to another, and I am leading the charge, practically uneducated about such things. They want blaming? Well, let�s fucking start then. I blame Kim for not teaching me half the things I needed to know (causing piles of work I never even knew I had until they were fucking mountains of it) and, even worse, teaching me the wrong things in a lot of cases (�If it�s neat enough, you can just cross out and write over the letters� Apparently that is actually one of Tosha�s biggest complaints). I blame Brian for making certain tasks such a high priority (�Try and get this done in the next week�) that I fall way behind on everything else. I blame Jason for incorrectly entering data into the system � or not entering it all � so that tons of people�s inspections are just gone� or are having inspections on days they were not aware of (Sundays, Jason?). And I�m sure I have fucked up some things � I got a landlord and tenant�s name confused once, so now Tosha thinks I�m a liar � and I�m always behind in phone calls and shit like that, but I don�t like it how every day I have this pile of notes on my desk about all the shit I did wrong when half of it isn�t me at all.

And then today was fucking epic level awful because the server went down and stayed that way the whole day long. I�m finally FINALLY starting to gain a little bit of ground on things and then I�m just tossed another day behind because I can�t access anything I need at all. So there�s another day going in at 8. And then I�ve been getting these calls from deaf people, over the very same internet relay chat Smacko and Kyle use to fuck with people all the time, but it�s far less amusing when I have about 30 seconds on content I need to relay, and somehow I�m still on the phone 20 minutes later, repeating my sentence once again for the foreign woman acting as my translator. And of course the person I am �speaking� with can�t type at all, and they are a fucking moron otherwise to boot, so we�re just going in big circles. �You aren�t in the Section 8 program. Go ahead.� �Operator says, please repeat your last sentence after the word �you.�� �You. Are. Not. In. The. Section. Eight. Program. Go ahead.� Pause 2 minutes for typing. �I� am� not� in� Sectioned Eight� pogrom? I� am�. puzzling� at� signed� door� inspector. Go ahead.� WHAT? Somehow I manage to volley myself through this hell, but even deaf people can�t help but give me a little depressing slice of life before they go: �I� am�. crying� when� puzzled� sign. Crying� from� confusion.� Oh good God. It was like talking to a retarded foreign robot.

And now I�ve been in such a foul mood lately. Shelly accused me of breaking her driver side mirror, and I kind of had a freak out. The last straw. OK, world, let�s just fucking make me scapegoat for all. I probably invented AIDS, too! Get him! To try and calm my nerves, I�ve been going to drugs and alcohol a lot more, which is always healthy, but I can�t imagine it�s too good to just sit around seething in rage either. At least I�m sory of happy when I�m stumbling around Schnucks looking for an appropriate television dinner.

Right now I want little more than to just get the fuck out of that shithole before they fire me first, but part of me remains tenacious. I really think that once I get everything computerized and all the old shit work done, that everything will be running so smoothly that they will finally stop pinning the blame on me. �I guess he finally started to take this job seriously,� they�ll say. Fuck you stupid bitches; I was finally able to do this impossible transitioning that none of you cretins ever could have handled.