Fucking Deadlines

Deadlines, honestly, confuse the fuck out of me.  On the one hand, or it seems more apt to say, foot, they represent a line in the sand.  (WHY can’t I stop rhyming, aarggghhh, it was not my intention.  I hope it’s not a trend.  If it starts it may never end.  OK I did that one on purpose, just to mock myself.)  Deadlines are the date or the time of the end of whatever it is- project, goal; it’s when you have to have it done.   I should have said they’re a line in the sand of time, except it’s a dead one.  A flat one.

On the other hand, they represent, at least to me, stress, pressure, compulsion, force, and evil.  The thing that bugs me the most about a deadline is that it’s fucking completely arbitrary.  Some human just made that shit up.  And we jump to meet that arbitrary bullshit.  There’s a deadline to pay the power bill, entirely made up by the power company even though they have enough money to spare, except when it comes time to pay their lowly peons, or Deons.  No, I don’t work for the power company.  There’s a deadline to pay the lease and the water bill, but it’s not like ALL these people can’t fucking find me if they really need the money.

By way of confession, my worldview is skewed.  (FUCK I did it AGAIN!)  I have this twisted mental picture (or is it a terrifyingly accurate one?) of corporate executives, ever since I overheard an executive bitch about how money was so tight he could only afford to rent the twenty five foot yacht instead of the thirty that year, that fucker, while they underpaid me so much I NEVER went out to eat, not breakfast, not lunch, not dinner, NEVER dated my wife except on the very cheap, and worried whenever I really wanted to spend money for something special that it would be outside our fucking budget and that if I spent it on a small luxury, we wouldn’t have enough if there was an emergency like a car breakdown or some groceries or medicine for the kids.  FUCKERS.  And then there’s the guy, and I literally did the math on it, who paid himself twice every damned day what he paid me in a fucking YEAR.  While we peons and Deons scrimp and fucking save and never get ahead, the executives worry because they can’t afford the extra five feet of fucking YACHT on their summer vacation in the fucking Bahamas.  Fucking WAHH, fucking executive fuckers.  There aren’t enough fucks to convey this rage.  The other executives I know about, at the damned electric company, shut off my electricity once last year because we were like a day late making a payment because dear Mrs M didn’t have time to call them, left for work, and my children came home from school to a dark house with no heat in the end of the winter season, those FUCKS.  They didn’t bother to fuckin call us.  Click.  Dark.  Cold.  Fear.  Abandonment.  The power companies are legend for their reckless disregard for life, having killed at least one fucking VETERAN in the winter for non-payment of his heat bill.  There is no excuse for this kind of bullshit EVER happening to anyone.  Just look at how many results there are in a stupid GOOGLE search.  You just don’t turn off life-sustaining necessities because you’re so fucking greedy and you don’t give a shit about people.  What you do is call the homeowner, or call the homeowner’s family, or call or visit the neighbors if he or she’s not answering the door, because he or she may be a shut-in or may be bipolar or may have a mental illness or may be just not able to get out of the house because of sickness or depression.  What you do is temporarily wait until you reach the homeowner or their neighbors or their family, or just fucking adopt him and pay his or her bill this month because, “thank you for your service to our country.  To thank you properly for your service, our service will NEVER be shut off.”

End of rant.  Or maybe not.

I’m reflecting on deadlines and resisting their bullshittery, in the face of my company changing their protocols for internet use and forcing me to write either in the morning before I have to rush out to get to work, or after work when I want to tell computers, phones, events, everyone, and their everything else clamoring for my free time to go fuck themselves and I want to be left alone.  I hate fucking change.  I hate arbitrary deadlines being imposed on me because the executives think they can get more out of me for the same weekly pittance and I’m no longer allowed to do what I want on my breaks or my lunch and no longer trusted to do my job, no longer able to search the internet for information I need in order to help clients the way I’ve always done it.  It’s an entirely arbitrary decision that forces me to squeeze out some attempt at creativity between 7:15 and 8 AM so I can get to work on time.  The grogginess of the morning makes my writing suck even worse than it did before.  The stress of attempting to write through the grogginess pushes my rage up.  So I’m already pissed off, or pissed off and fucking late for work, if I spend a few extra minutes trying for something worth reading.

Speaking of deadlines, Mrs M has a social obligation tonight, which means somehow that I have a social obligation, so I have to wrap it up so she makes it to her fucking event on time, dragging me along to something I’m less than remotely interested in attending.

I won’t know anyone there.  But as a bonus for Mrs M, I’m fucking awesome arm candy. Sullen, cranky, bored, frustrated with the inane conversations and bragadocious ass holes, starving and not hungry at the same time, but I am fucking beautiful (not really, just trying to invent a reason for why I have to go along).  And finish this in time for her arbitrarily chosen deadline.  FML.

Yay.

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3 thoughts on “Fucking Deadlines

  1. I signed a petition against this pharma company jacking up the price of Epi pens to three hundred a pop…And they hauled the big shot lady to court and she disclosed she *only* made 18 million the year before so that’s why they jacked up the cost.
    Corporate bullshit.

    Liked by 1 person

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