Today I’m breathing the fresh, clean air of relief (sort of).
Technically, I shoulda been footloose and fancy free as of the other day (whichever day that was).
I’ve been stressin’ like a rubber band twisted around a shitty balsa wood airplane propeller.
I’m not good at letting go. Even when ‘letting go’ means ‘quitting the biggest sumbitch bunch of ass-sucking fucktard ad agency shits in all the whole world combined…ever.’
I still wake up in the early hours thinking, ‘Jesus! They’re assholes!’
I’m still stressing about how I could make the latest XXXXXXXXX radio ad a little bit better. I worry that people will think less of me because I’m an American trying to fudge his way through the UK dialect.
I think about how to make that fat sumbitch that WAS my boss happy.
I think about how to survive.
It’s strange to think that I am now the Senior Copywriter at the biggest ad agency in Northern Ireland (Yes, fuck you JK. They’re bigger than you! (which is saying something, fatass)). They were excited to have me (but not as excited as I was to take their offer) (and they didn’t give me shit about not being ‘passionate’ (I am passionate, JK, but you stole the passion from me)).
And you, JK, said I was shit. (Again… fuck you.)
They seem cool.
They seem real.
They seem like they give a shit. (You only care about money.)
(Fingers crossed that things will be better…) (They can’t be worse.)