My boss is a stone cold B-I-T-C-H.
She has ridiculous expectations, constantly forcing me to edit and re-edit till I go cross-eyed from staring at the computer screen and my wrists burn with tendinitis. The only way I get time off is by buying a plane ticket somewhere far away. And the pay- well, I made more when I babysat the Daruwala brothers at the age of eleven, splitting the five dollars an hour with my sister.
How do I survive? The same way all those who live under an oppressive regime do: I seek out the silver lining. I wake up at 7:50, an hour and a half later than when I was a teacher. At lunch sometimes, I sneak in a rerun of the Gilmore Girls. She does allow me to leave home early, beat traffic, and work from my car till my 6 o'clock Bollywood Cardio class- bitch don't care where the work gets done so long as it does.
I know what you're thinking: what a slacker. Phi is the real five letter word.
Luckily the nausea (when will this book ever finish), the anxiety (am I piddling away my life on this whim I once had?), the self doubt (it's been two years, oughtn't I get a real job?) still reign strong so clearly I'm doing something right.
My boss, you see, is also my PR agent, and she works hard to maintain my tortured artist-ness.
