So amidst life's toils and troubles--filled with the obdurate and pugnacious, as so rightly tagged by yours truly--we, (myself and my lovely partner-in-crime), find ourselves on the precipice of a rather exigent matter: the move. The culprit would be none other then the ones we call our employers. Allow me to expound.
A while ago, I took on the job of Lead Stock at the vile monster we all know as Hollister. Great clothes, crappy management. The job entailed doing something that was previously given 40 hours a week to do. This was whittled down to a measly 32 hours right as I was coming in, leaving me short-handed and inexperienced in a job of some credibility. This slowly proved to be fatal, day after day of not accomplishing what I felt I should be able to. The emotional burden of such a thing is nothing less of depressing. Needless to say this slowly wore on me, until I grew to hate my job and the company I worked for with a passion. I won't go into all the details of why I still believe Hollister's management is conceived from the Prince of Darkness himself, but I will leave that with saying, I got written up. So I quit, leaving on a good note instead of getting fired.
This grand tale of blood and heroics isn't finished, but I'm bored of typing. More to come...
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