Dear Mr Sandman, I miss you, sincerely, Mcgee

Hello dear reader, apologies once again for the extended absence, I will not patronise you with some half spun yarn of disastrous proportions (I think the previous post done that well enough), let’s just say that I am no longer away but am now very much here. The length of time I shall remain is about as long as my last string o’ sanity; dwindling and ever decreasing in magnitude. Hopefully my latest, well-strung tale will weave a string of ideas as effortlessly as this god-awful thread metaphor. Who am I kidding, this, like every other inane babble that I type down, will inevitably descend into the usual chaotic soup that I call a writing style. Whelp, here goes absolutely nothing.

To begin with, it would seem that at some point during these past few weeks, I have begun to adopt a semi-nocturnal sleep schedule, now this would be fine for a guy who could either handle a lack of sleep or had some sort of supernatural-ability granting infection (vampirism for those of you not in the loop), sadly I belong to neither. I have attempted to remedy this innumerable times, however it would appear that a combination of the universal laws of time and action packed days prevent this. Meh, I’m not fussed, I’ve adapted to a life stumbled through in a zombie like stupor. Besides, I’ve never been one to moan.

Expect this paragraph to start with a discursive marker congruent with the established form of the prior paragraph? You got another thing coming buddy. I’m sick and tired of all this coherent writing bollocks, words make far more sense when they free float in amongst the shifting soups  of the mind, feels odd to have to pin them down to paper, or in this case, electronic memory. Seem to lose a lot of their meaning on reflection. For example, squamous. The word is so fun to say that it makes me feel happy just reading it, however I doubt you feel the same. If only they could invent some form of mind-imprinty word-transfery meaning-combobulation device, then my life would be just peachy and you could all be privy to the depravities of my mind. Hey, I didn’t say it would be a good thing for you.

Finally sorted out my university application business a week or so back (from hence referred to as UCAS), it was a long old slog but now it is done, I can sit by impatiently as I wait for the decisions of my future to be decided by some far of hand of fate. I feel almost as powerless as Nick Clegg. Almost. Whilst I’m on the topic of official shit, my work at squiddlypib is going well, in fact it is going better than well, I have found my true calling in life; knitwear. The past few shifts I’ve had the oh so much pleasure of attending have seen me elbow deep in items so gaudy, it would have given the late Jimmy Savile a run for his money. By the end of the last four hour slog, I was convinced that a particular jumper was following me, that I was the crowned king of knitwear (complete with tragic back-story) and that a Bsc in Knitwear and knitwear dynamics wouldn’t be such a bad course to take. You don’t understand how much I like knitwear. Seriously.

Well, that’s enough chatter for now, I have chaos to spread and seeds of discontent to sow amongst those who trust me. Ciao <3

A joke more than befitting the mood

Q. What do you call a sheep on a trampoline?

A. A woolly jumper

Alright, I admit, that was bad even for me...

You just can't please some people

I’m either a glutton for punishment, the biggest moaner alive or just a massive malcontent. It seems that in my search for happiness, I’ve yet again, landed myself in another regrettable situation. You may recall that in an earlier post I was, as usual, bemoaning the lamentable situation that my work life was currently in. You’d think that if I were to somehow become lucky enough to change that annoying limbo I had landed in that I’d finally find a little joy. You’d think.

I’ve recently found myself in the employ of the company I previously mentioned, the oh so wonderful Squidlypib (name changed for "This could get me fired" reasons). I’ll take this chance to rescind my prior accusations as to the nature of said company’s labour record. This is because I have had a chance to read the various literatures they’ve stationed at key strategic locations (Toilet door, above the toilet, on every available counter surface) and totally not because it is stated in my employee hand book that it is against my contract to speak ill of them on the interwebs.

I do have one thing to be thankful for, the hours are pretty damn excellent. Four hour blocks in the middle of the day during the weekends. Sadly this also means that I am forced to work bank holidays which includes BLOODY CHRISTMAS FUCKING DAY but I’m not bitter. The work itself isn’t exactly tasking, that’s probably the problem I have with it. I mostly wander around for the first two hours returning the various ghastly dresses some women supposedly wear. Believe me when I say I have handled more women’s clothing than most women would likely wear throughout their lifetime.  Surprisingly, this can be quite enjoyable, compared to the other tasks I am often set, that is. There’s nothing quite like memorising the exact location of various blouses, dresses and knitwear to get the ol’ neurons a’ firing. The part that makes suicide look like a valid and all together, more appealing option is the dreaded pick up of the sales section.

Imagine, if you will, a 16’ by 16’ square. Now fill this square with the cheapest bits of tat you can think of. Throw in a few tables with denim bits and bobs and you have the basic layout.  You are tasked with picking up the clothes and putting them back onto whichever rail they fell off of. That is all. Now picture a continuous stream of the most idiotic and downright stupid dullards you can. They are thwarting your every effort to keep some semblance of order in a pretty damn chaotic store. Every time you go to the other side of the square, someone will knock off what you just done on the previous side, forcing you to return to it, only for the same thing to happen on the other side you just went to. Now do this for 3 hours. At least Sisyphus got to watch a cool boulder roll down the other side of the hill.

This repetition of shear mind crushing, soul sucking monotony is now my world every Saturday and Sunday from about 11 am to 3 pm. Forgive me for thinking the minimum wage doesn’t quite seem like an adequate recompense. There is only so many times you can play the same song through your mind before you just want to find the nearest implement and scoop each word out from your own brain.

On the bright side, I have a job now.

Applicant joke because I’m too tired to find anything different

Employer to applicant: "In this job we need someone who is responsible."

Applicant: "I'm the one you want. On my last job, every time anything went wrong, they said I was responsible."

Will write poorly constructed blog posts for money

It’s a sad day when you aren’t quite good enough to work for McDonalds. The final nail in the coffin of the plucky young lad who had been so fervently looking for employment, slowly lowering his standards until finally, the day comes when the phrase “would you like fries with that?” seems like the optimal career move. Little did he know, this most disdained of jobs was less the broad side of a barn and more a rapidly disappearing target in a thunderstorm, much like every other job he had tried for up till that point. It is at this point that our average hero sadly gives up his search and returns to a life of poverty and free time. It'll take much more than that to deter me dear reader, I’ve sunk far lower.

Let me give you a little context to the situation before this post derails in the characteristic train wreck that is my writing style; for a good month and a bit, my friend Tom (whose blog I have linked for your pleasure below whilst also dedicating this post to) and I have been on a jobs hunt. It began with a casual browse through the odd jobs website and ended up with a series of long treks to far flung jobs centres, which more often than not, yielded no results other than another scratch upon my ego. Believe me when I tell you, my ego has now gained the appearance of a battle hardened veteran; there’s even a few of those cool scars on the cheeks.

Before I continue with my story, I must ask that you think not too badly of me for the blatant hypocrisy exhibited in the following; I abandoned my moral compass in my search for work long ago. The story begins similarly to the many other online applications I had completed over the previous weeks, the difference being that this particular store had deemed me worthy of a reply and an interview. Only, I didn’t quite realise this until 3 days prior to the interview and as such, was forced to scramble my resources in order to fill out all the required forms and gather all the other paraphernalia that I would need, but I digress. The interviews were held in a hotel attached to west ham football ground, conveniently easy to reach through the front entrance but being the adventure loving idiot that I am, I didn’t quite realise this and as such, ended up wandering to the rather less extravagant backside of the grounds in search of some mystical entrance. Things were off to a great start.

After I had wandered back to the front, I sauntered up to the front desk, mustering the small amounts of cool I had been saving for just such an occasion in order to make a good first impression but once again, my efforts were in vain as I was caught off guard by a team member who was hanging about to my side. I was promptly led upstairs to a seating area filled with a bunch of others and a screen with some form of indoctrinating video on loop, its lures were tempting but I managed to retain my mind for just long enough to escape to the interview. The interview itself was pretty uneventful; I charmed the pants off of the interviewer whilst answering a load of simple questions in an elegant fashion. As quickly as it had begun, the process was over and I was free of the dreaded confines of that top button on the shirt. Now here’s the kicker; the store in question is that moral bastion known as Squidlypib (retconned for SPOILERS "This could get me fired" reasons) and no, I didn’t get the job. I sold my morals in a bid to get a minimum wage job for a conglomerat, propping up the capitalist system whilst also potentially helping a known user of child labour all in one fell swoop. I didn’t even get the bloody job. I’ve outdone myself this time.

Good news for you though, I’m still available for work. If you need a writer of slightly depressing or overtly verbose, quasi-philosophical nonsense, I’m your man.

http://thefrequientlyincoherentmindofagenius.blogspot.com/

Rib-tickilingly bad joke to while away the seconds

Q. What happened to the boat that sank in the sea full of piranha fish?
A. It came back with a skeleton crew!