After spending three excruciating weeks showing up for work but really working, being forced by the HR peeps to write boring articles about brake hoses and boat covers, facing the day fighting tooth and nail just so I can fucking write in fucking peace minus the Goddamned screaming of The Black Parade and that stupid, stupid song by the Six Cycle Mind that these tone-deaf dickwads kept singing over and over and over again like a fucking broken record, forcing myself to do freelance work just so I could ignore the urge to walk out that door with no intention of coming back, spending mind-numbing hours asking myself whether or not I made the biggest mistake of my career by sticking up to this company for two years when I know I could find a better job, being angry with myself because I can't trust myself to make important decisions and generally hating how much things have changed, I'm somewhat happy to say I got the promotion I've been waiting for.
I was pleasantly surprised, vindicated even, because I knew it was a long shot. But I actually did bag the job and I was glad. Hell, for a couple of days, I was. I got exactly what I wanted.
But as it turns out, none of you guys were here to see it. Wish I could celebrate this with you guys. I would've even done my goofy victory dance that you guys loved so much because I look stupid everytime I do it.
Hay, wish you were here.
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