Friday Hustle

A part of me regrets posting the Plath poem last night. Work has been a shitshow this week and yesterday was just — hay, ‘tang ina. The gist, I suppose, is I fucked up.

Or other people fucked up. But because my brain is wired a certain way, I have this crippling tendency to just take in all the blame.

This morning, for example, the contractor told my boss that our project had not been running smoothly in their site. Parts never arrive on time, he said, and it’s my job to tell the vendor to provide all the parts on time. But I always speak with the vendor and he always assures me that he’s got it, that he knows the drill. Welp. Apparently not.

The other day I had a different problem with another project. The site discovered existing issues with my design, all of which I assumed were already handled in the past. Again, apparently not.

So I made all these assumptions and they ended up biting me in the butt. I’ve been trying to justify my decisions but, to be honest, they were really just shitty decisions. I fucked up.

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Of speeding tickets and music habits

It’s been a long day.

I left the house a few minutes before 7:30. My goal was to be at the new work site by 8 am, and according to Google I still had enough wiggle room to get there right on schedule. I was cruising through 118 taking my sweet-ass time when I sensed a bright, white flash — a speeding ticket!

I couldn’t understand why I got flashed. I was only going a little above 60 — definitely under 65 — so, what did I do wrong? Maybe this was a 50 road, I told myself, but I wasn’t even a block away when I saw another flash. Wait — was I ticketed twice? Was there another hidden camera? Why would they set up two speeding flags so close to each other anyway?

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