It's 4p.m. I have been sitting at my workstation for the last nine hours. I am numb. I have been staring into a white, flourescent computer screen for the last three days from 9 o'clock in the morning until 9 o'clock at night. A sudden, intense pain shoots up my right arm indicative of early carpal tunnel. I can't bear to read another e-mail, review another spreadsheet, or code another document. There is no escape. There is no internet. There is no telephone. There is just me and the clickity-click of the coders around me.
In a sudden spat of desperation, I rise like a phoenix. I make it my mission to reach the Starbucks across the street. I quickly grab my coat and head for the door. A hundred stunned and silent eyes jealously stare me down as I skillfully weave my way past row upon row of coding terminals. One wrong move can lead to sudden unemployment. But, luckily, this time I am safe. The project manager, sealed off in her glass-encased cubicle, appears to be pre-occupied with the latest issue of the Joyce Leslie catalogue.
I have made it out. I am safe. I am a bona-fide refugee of temp land. As I quickly gulp down my steaming, hot cup of java, I am hit by a disturbing realization. How am I going to get back into templand?
We Have a Scalp - Whittier Law's Last Stand
3 days ago