Seventy-six days. That's how long I was out of work. Eleven weeks. It was not the making of me, like my friend and I thought it would be. I haven't gone on to bigger and better things. The experience has left me frustrated, questioning my abilities, and depressed. Oh, and let's not forget my favourites, mentally and emotionally exhausted.
I have a new job now and I'm grateful for it, really. And I don't want to say anything bad about it, but I think if I said I'm the sixth or seventh receptionist they've had this year, you'd get an idea about what I would say. If I was to say anything bad. Which I won't. Ooh, I also have to wash other people's dirty coffee cups.
This is me, keeping my mouth shut.
This is also me, having my very own pity party for one.