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look busy, they're coming
newsflash: management decides that workerbees have grown far too complacent, far too comfortable in their beige cages; elects to 'stir things up' by springing another round of surprise layoffs.
with the (relatively recent) experience of being chewed up and spit out of the life-altering redundancy machine, i feel that i've developed a unique perspective on the event. --in retrospect, i've found that it's always the sheer mystery of the process that's haunting, not the outcome.
you know it's happening. usually, you even know the number. hushed murmurs spread rumors that make even those who know, second-guess themselves. everybody makes little tallies, counting the confirmed hits, subtracting from the total, calculating the remainder: it only takes 1 to be you.
it is in the quiet, solitary moments that the possibility of 'it' really stings. stare at your monitor, stare your cube decorations, stare your damned todo list. what if it is you? chances are, you hate that job anyway.
so then you loathe yourself for hanging onto a job you loathe just so you can pay some bills that you loathe and ...
( well, you get the idea. )
trust me, if it does happen, and you are the one, a sort of improbable nirvana opens up, invites you in. it's a relief, a really; a sort of scary calm washes over you, chilling last moment's nervous sweat, and you find yourself shuddering in the cold clear unavoidable opportunity for change. blinking like an idiot.
it's kind of like a rockshow. sometimes, you know the mosh pit's coming, (metallica's playing, duh). sometimes it just happens, (two tapers start fighting for the prime spot at belle & sebastian) and soon indie kids are bleeding, a girl's lost her glasses, and some jerk's spilt beer on my adidas.
at the end of the show, a select few are dragged from the building, and those that are left find themselves wandering around in aimless circles, their ears ringing from the noise.
of course, the next morning, there is little left to document the experience, other than 20 proof tennies and sedate reports written by robots proclaiming how great the music sounded.
anyway, another round has passed; this time, i'm in the subset defined by n-k; a group casually identified as survivors. of course, such a label belies the fact that this group is precisely the same set that will be sweating again next month, when the cycle repeats.
whatever, i need a damn summatra.