The new job seems to be going okay. I remember a lot, and I talk about the stuff I remember, and I’m able to ‘apply’ the stuff. The data stuff, I got a lock on that. Some of the procedure stuff – I need some work. I worry. Sometimes, somebody will ask me about something, and I won’t know the details off the top of my head. I don’t like not knowing something when they ask me. I might be over-thinking it. Probably, it’s going just fine. I’m not going to know everything after just two weeks. I am progressing at an acceptable pace probably.
I don’t want to do the following: put too much of myself out there. I have had a couple of job failures so far here, since I moved to Raleigh, since I left my last long-term job. I think back on those failures and it stings. The thing that adds even more sting to the sting is this: I gave personal information. I talked about my interests. I bragged a little. I confided, a little. I gave some of my history. It makes me feel even worse about the failure. It’s like I gave those people some pieces of meat to pick through – my meat. Chunks of meat, out of myself, left behind for people to scrutinize and trip about – stories.
Remember that dude that worked here? That dude that got fired after only a few… Remember that dude? Remember that goofy shit he talked about? Look: there’s that dopey action figure he left behind. Let’s break it.
I don’t know why I give a shit. It just seems like it would have been better if I had left it cold and sterile and anonymous somehow.
I worked at a company in Florida for eight years, and I remember this lady who got hired there. She only worked there for like…two or three days. She was in the next cubicle over. On her second day, she brought in all this shit to decorate her cubicle with. It was a bunch of stuff from Pier One or something. Candle holders, little decorative masks — that type of stuff. There was a lot of it. So she brings all this stuff into her cubicle on day two, and then on day three, she either quit or got fired. All that junk sat in that cubicle for days and days. I don’t know if they ever got that crap back to her or what. It just seemed like such a painful, embarrassing, depressing thing. She had such high hopes, I guess, she was trying to make a home at this place…and then she’s gone. And she left behind all of this stuff that served as material for other people around to joke about. Horrible. I don’t want to leave anything like that if I get canned. I never want to have to fill up a box with ridiculous items that will seem even more ridiculous boxed up and humped out of there as people look on with scorn. If I get canned, if I feel like I’m going to get canned, I want to get in and get out, like it was a trip to the DMV or something.