Saturday, January 28, 2012

I am Intern, The Intern.

After my constant nagging of wanting a job, the opportunity finally availed itself and like hell I ran for it. Two days in and I don't want to work no more. Its exhausting. I'm perfectly okay with the entire hullabaloo that comes with working in an office. The drama, gossip, personal relationships between workers. Not too bad. It actually gives some sort of pep and vim to what would otherwise be a reiterative schedule. However...(first time)

Getting home exhausted is, well, exahusting. First thing you want to do is assault your bed and kick off your shoes (in no particular order). I actually miss the boredom that came with staying at home for hours on end, thinking up a good excuse to catch a ride to town once in a while in the hope of meeting up with random familliar faces. Yeah. I was (am) a low life. However...(again) I get to call myself 'The Intern'. Dunno why hollywood hasn't made a film on that one yet. Oh. I think I'll patent it. Put that on my bucket list. I even made myself a name tag with 'The Intern' written on it. Note: we don't use nametags 'at work'. With two workmates, they're kinda unimportant. But mine gets to hang from my neck on a Sponge Bob hangy thingy. I think I'll type that shit out. Put that on my bucket list.

However...(again) being a 'freshman' at work comes with its problems too: mine being being the klutz- if that makes sense. I really get paranoid around clients especially the high paying ones. Random example, yesterday, client transacts with 'The Boss' and I'm supposed to write him a receipt after he pays for 'services offered'. Halfway in, I rembember that I forgot to use carbon paper in making a duplicate of the original receipt- for the purposes of keeping records ofcourse.

Damage control! I end up inserting the carbon paper and retracing my handwritting over previously inscribed words. Client pulls a facepalm stunt followed by a SMH and calls me an amatuer. By now I'm shaking my handwritting appears to be a sketch in abstract art (it always does but that is besides the point).

Today I get to 'work' (yes 'I work' Saturdays as well. Whats that?! Ofcourse with pay, stupid. Do I seem like a Non-profit generating organization to you?! Yeah. Thought so.) shortly before 'Nice guy'- as one of my workmates will hereby be refered. He gives me the keys to the office as he runs a few errands. So I casually walk up the stairs listening to Good feeling- Florida and humming along while at it. I choose a small key and turn it in the lock and turn. It snaps. Two equal pieces. One of which is now lodged in the key hole and the other in my hand. Now I'm screwed. Totally screwed. I can even see the headlines, the tabloids: 'Self proclaimed intern ends his short reign'. I'm thinking I run. Home. Fast. No. Its a law firm stupid! The law will catch up with you. Dang! What to do what to do. I decide to call 'Loise Laine'- my other workmate- for 'Nice guy's' number. Speak of the devil.Enter 'Nice guy'. I explain myself amid hysteria...I wasn't my fault. Honest. It wasn't. It was Flo rida's. Bitch gave me superhuman strength. High on that illuminati shit. However...(again) 'Nice guy' being, well, a nice guy, just smiles, and says its okay, performs some sort of burgle trick on the lock and Presto! we have access. Kinda makes me think of the practicality of his name.

I could go on an on, however (again), I'll spare you the boredom and ask you to take your pococurantism elsewhere.

On to a not so important fact.  Black dress has been defined as a must have in every ladies closet. Majorly because it can (and does) go with anything. In my thinking, the male blackdress is a white shirt, two days of 'work' has taught me that with a white shirt is a must have in a dude's closet. So ladies...*clears throat*.

Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.3

No comments:

Post a Comment