This is what happens when I take a week off work: the world falls apart.
There I was, whistling while I tended orchids, when I got the call: retrenchments. Some of the worst Work News any person can get. I should be used to it by now. This will be my fifth round of retrenchments in two different organisations (aka. the reality of working in journalism). Somehow I’ve survived the previous four unscathed (except emotionally and mentally — I worry that they eye twitch from the second round will never go away), and this has made me wonder: am I the cream that floats to the top, or the shit?
But what gets to me more than anything is the injustice of an “organisational restructure”. The Big Dogs, the head honchos, they never worry about their jobs. Their employment and paycheque (which is substantially bigger than everyone else’s) are secure, but they were the ones who fucked up! The Little People, the lilliputians if you will, did their jobs to the best of their ability.
Take me, for example. My job is to write, and so I write. I write new things, I make sure I’m on top of the news in my field. I dance for my nefarious overlords, giving them boasting rights, but I don’t sell advertising. I don’t manage a company. But I’m the one whose job is at stake.
What is that? That’s injustice. I suffer, while the people who actually GOT us into this situation in the first place stand in front of us, with horse faces and mouth full of teeth, saying how much it hurts them to do this.
Well, you know what, buddy? Fuck you. Think about the 55-year-old white man with two children who is probably going to lose his job. He didn’t take sick days, arrived ready to work at 8am and left after it was dark. He’s the person who is going to pay because you can’t do your job.
And, yes, it is all your fault.
Angry science girl 