I'm not fucking okay.

Once again, I find myself in the uneviable position of being a retrenchment exercise survivor. You think the retrenched have it bad? The survivors don't exactly have a walk in the park either.

Be the one who drafted the retrenchment letter and have a day's warning for impending doom without anyone to share it with. Tell me how much you fucking love having your job after that.

So, at the moment, I've gone through rage, anger, and chocolate-induced highs to combat depression. I've got bosses fucking telling me that things are going to be okay. Well fuck it.

I. Don't. Believe. You.

And because I like my fucking salary so fucking much, I'm just going to curl up and whimper like a fucking coward instead of telling them -exactly- where to stuff their pay raises.

Life goes on. Fuck.