The Wolves Picked One of Us Off

Work is getting weird...and hostile...and sad...and just...weird. The aura in the building is one part post-apocalyptic shock and another part extreme sense of impending doom. Oh the joys of an imploding economy! We're all literally taking it one day at a time, waiting to get a small envelope, which means that our days are number and the date of our professional death at Big Yellow will be imminent in 60 days.

There was a mass reduction in force amongst the hourly ranks last week and the fallout still lingers heavy in the air. Now there are stage whispers of another coming for the management and salary folks and small tribes are begining to form.

Me, I'm the last of the mohicans, with the mm likely being the latest casualty in the war on cost. I'm already working with the pretty boy, who is about to embark on his final 30 days with the company. Working with him is like working with the walking dead. And now that the mm has abruptly vanished, I feel like...

You know when the zombies are attacking and then there are only 2 people left? We were those two people and we had our backs against each others, fighting the good fights (people! quality! velocity! cost!) and being glad to 'live' another day. Well, the zombies picked him off and now it's just me against the horde. What do I do?

I keep my head low, draw a circle in salt on the ground, pick up a board and start swinging. Oh hells yeah I feel defeated and sad and lonely, but now I'm mad as hell and feeling that old defiant spark rearing it's head (which is a sensation very much akin to the one I get when a fervor for pyromania sets in). Yes, I'mna light this bitch on fire, keep on swinging, and not go quietly into that good night.

...and then I'm going to go home and mourn some more. No, wait. I'm going to drive to Tennessee, listen to a lot of Leonard Cohen, and smoke me some Dunhills. That's what I'm gonna do...