So, I didn’t get the F#$%ing job … again.

No. Really. This is not a copy and paste affair. I am dead, dead serious … and for those South Africans, ‘skoon befok and moedeloos.’

Apparently, the story goes that there was someone who was prepared to do it for R2 000 less than me. Now let me tell you that it was not as if I was asking for anything to brag about. Oh, no. In fact, I would have kept my head down, gone about my job and quietly paid for the bread and milk every month. And maybe my daughter’s aftercare of 300 Ront p.m.

I could really use some choice, rude and refreshing verbal ejaculation at this point in time. But I shall restrain myself and behave like the lady (apparently doomed to a life of leisure) that I am. And bake. And bake. And bake. I want to eat my f@#king cake, too, though.

It is increasingly hard to remain upbeat and moderately satisfied with my lot in life. This job-hunt thing has become my achilles heel and a bit of a challenge. Which I am not enjoying.

It sort of makes you you feel really shit about yourself.

It brings out the evil-eyed green monster in me and I loathe those people that go off to work with a skip and a smile every morning.

It makes me doubt my self-worth.

It makes me dread having to phone Mumsie to tell her the news.

It makes me feel fat … and ugly … and dimwitted.

On the plus side … it has given me a good reason to drink. I am now enjoying the first 125ml of my 19 Ront bottle of Chardonnay, in about 3 months. I do not care what cellar it originates from, because it has a 14% alcohol content.

I shall most probably be summonsed to an appointment in the Oval office later this evening, where I will fax my stomach contents to all the people that do not really, really love me.



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