Bust.

Gosh, it's fun being unemployed. I love waking up in the morning, knowing that my life currently has no purpose beyond re-reading Spanish for Dummies for the umpteenth time, or slogging my dictionary-assisted way, word by tedious word, through H.P. in the hopes that J.K.R.'s repetative prose will help some of it to stick. And the funnest part? Knowing that my partener is now Roof Guy! Yes, he's supporting us both! Because I'm too crap at Spanish to get a job yet! Isn't that fun?

Nope, tell a lie. The funnest part has been translating my CV. Gosh, it's great to reflect on how well the years of studying electronic engineering have prepared me for the fast-paced worlds of retail and sanitation! What? No! Those are happy tears. Happy tears. Ah, ha. Ah, ha ha ha. Ah, hahahahahahaaaaaaaaaa.

This cannot last.

It's all your fault. All of you. You and your smug little smiles, your snide little digs. "Well, Ms. Carnival, I'm afraid we don't have anything at your skills level at the moment, but if you clean out the staff toilets with a toothbrush for a week or two I'm sure we can find you some thing." "Only the one diploma in electronics and computer technology at A-level equivalent? Gosh, I guess you were just to individual to study, hmm? Hey, could you mend, say, a Walkman?"

Eroding me. Eating away at my confidence, hypnotising me, digging your perfectly laquered fingernails into my very SOUL until everything I am or should be is lying in a crumpled, bleeding heap in one corner of my life! Turning me into a dead-eyed, inadiquate duplacate of YOU! I ought to poison every temp co-ordinator on the face of the planet! Then maybe, just maybe, I could wrest my HEART back from you CAREERIST ZOMBIES and actually have some kind of life.

This must end. I wanna be me. Me. Cracked black nail varnish, permanantly cheesed-off, one-woman renaissance fair. Not-- and this is important-- a fake you. Take your skills level, and stick it up your perfectly made-up right nostril.