For a little more information about me than you'd probably like to know, I work at Marks and Spencers, a dire hole of industry with all the warmth of a witches tit. How long this is going to last however I'm not sure as my neck appears to be first in line to the chopping block. That's not to say two years of taking abuse from customers, fellow work mates and any passing shaved chimp that happened to string two words of verbal horror my way has been pleasurable, no no. I find myself in the strange position of wanting to be fired. It may sound selfish in a time of economic crisis, where jobs rise and fall at the whim of fat co-orporate chiefs, patting eachother on the back like the comming of man for devising the credit crunch, a way to make shares and money seemingly dissapear, allowing them to cut workers and effectively make more profit than ever with "skeleton crew's", the bare minimum of staff nessicary for the job, but I no longer want to run the rat race. I've gone on too long trying to please my boss, who seems to enjoy finding faults in my work almost as much as he does finding faults with me personally, like a blood hound to the scent of an injured pig. I've had two years of feeling utterly destitute in a job I despise, working beneath, not beside, people with all the mental ability of a squeezed lemon, and I feel now it's time to break free from the system. In all probability, I'm about to be fired from this hole to sink deeper into another pit of clawing hands, ready to rip away what little is left of my self esteem, but should that happen I'm more likely to self terminate than to struggle on with it as I have. You probably didn't want to know that, but fuck it, it's my journal, not yours. If your still reading and feel indignant to that last statement, why the hell are you still reading now? I don't know. There's a sense of ironic schadenfreude, knowing that no one is likely to read this or reply, but I'm still writing. It's much akin to kicking myself in the teeth, a hard feat to accomplish. Out.