The Impostor Syndrome, sometimes called Impostor Phenomenon or Fraud Syndrome, is a syndrome where sufferers are unable to internalize their accomplishments. It is not an officially recognized psychological disorder but has been the subject of numerous books and articles by psychologists and educators.
I'm a double agent, a day time impostor; practicing the art of deceit at UCLA by playing the role of hard working office man when all I'm really doing is what I've always done. Fucked around and tried to stay under the radar just enough to slide by doing as little as humanly possible. And when I clock out, the mask is tucked away for the morning and i embody the hard drinking, mean spirited, stubborn smuck i really am.Turns out I'm not so good at being a double agent. According to an inside source, I.E a co-worker, my boss knows I'm a fuck up. Always has, she's actually been spying on me and monitoring my computer the entire time I've worked here. In which I've done countless things against regulation including writing this blog, at this exact moment.
Also, everyone in the entire building thinks i'm a little shit, which is true, because I am. They hate how I look and how I act. i can't tell if its that I'm truly just a little dick or that it's not my fault, maybe its a generational thing and i'm just too young for them to understand.
When looking into Generation Y and our common behavior, I feel a little better about being such a douche bag.From wikipedia: Some employers are concerned that Millennials have too great expectations from the workplace and desire to shape their jobs to fit their lives rather than adapt their lives to the workplace.
They told me to cut my hair, I told them that if i cut my hair they'd see my peircings. So i cut my hair and gauged my ears. The told me to always cover my tattoos, even if its hot outside, i must wear long sleeves. So i wore long sleeves in summer time, but always rolled up my sleeves. They told me I had to take furlough days. So i started taking off fridays. They told me to dress buisness casual. So i wear black jeans and a flannel. So told me i could listen to headphones as long as I only have it in one ear. So i play my music through the computer speakers.
To sum it up, another inside source told me that no one respects me, or really likes me. They think i'm doing minimal work, that i look like a freak, play video games all day, and my personal favorite, that "i just don't get it". That i don't have the "head" for this work. That i need to grow up. Well of course I dont have the "head" for this work. I've never done anything like this is my entire life. What am I good at....being sarcastic (customer service) and cleaning other peoples piss off floors with mops
This is what I always dreamed of having when I thought about growing up. Minimal college experience with no job skills outside of being a janitor. Growing up sucks, so I try to avoid it.
"You're not cut out for this type of work."
i feel like im drowning in a sea of cubicles I guess I can't complain about people finding out how shitty of an employee I am....Especially when I spend my time doing things like writing in blogs and making silly pictures.
A co worker and I made this one today!Fuck it, lets get fucked up, below is some stuff thats blatantly about drugs, so, enjoy
dont bogart that joint ©
circles of conversations running in obstactles amongst the population, tiny cities made of circles but they can't seem to tell the circles all they are talking in,
bitter about their freedom they suck at the bitterness of their boxed wine as they bicker about their freedoms,
chopping concepts they dont understand into easy to understand concepts,
blurring the intentional meaning to try and define in simple words the intentions of their repression,
the mans got me down, don't bogart that joint,
recycling the words of reccession and repression to define the peoples depression,
needles to the vein is their expression of angression toward the tyranny,
the passing of smoke and spirits, they dull their spirits in smoke singing songs of revolution,
life's a book and this ones absent of text cause they never stop the song to think about the context,
fuck the man, he's got us all down,
hard to fight a giant when your fighting battles with couches and coughs of marijuana,
slumming yourself but filled with angst about the slum you live in,
praising your supplier but never realizing whose supplying, it's hard to fight the giant when you're it's main buyer,
aint it silly, that the places bleeding with poverty and the dirt cheap property are also flushed with the easiest of posion accessablity?
wallstreet's standing still but it's got it's head turned the otherway as the dollars burn their way into the lined pockets of a suit
Nic Fits and Nameless Streets © (written sophmore year, highschool)
Distorted, estranged and deranged, disoriented in disarray with senses throbbing.
I peddle across the floor in one last attempt for just a little change. Piteous!
Sheltering this bitter feeling in my stomach of hollowness and the need of a friend, I find myself strung out again.
Smug and contorted, I wander lost through labyrinth parking lots, aching for the nicotine fix.
Solely accompanied by the grief-ridden arguments of my consciousness.
Sinning and spinning in this hamster wheel of a cycle.
And when up has reached its end and the low tide rides again, that’s when I find it happening, I find myself breaking into the same old song and dance.
I try to shrug it off and continue in my attempt to bury the regret that I try so fervently to refuse, but I’m overpowered and unable to elude the shroud of the past.
And so like clockwork, a snapshot appears midair in the string of lights fixed up in my skull’s interior.
And I reach back into those words that glided off her tongue when we had last spoke, those etched into my armor like hieroglyphics in stone.
Asking how I’d been, I responded by slothfully arching my back to remove my slouch and cocked up my stubby chin to reveal a gaping mouthful of lies.
Snakes of mendacity slithered through the breaches of my nicotine stained teeth and fell deaf and inert.
She could see right through my frail disguise, reading the open pages of my pupils.
Comedic how it works, the process of coming down; the random memories and archaic sentiment that arise and pierce their way in so deeply under the skin.
And so sprouts the next sequence in this waltz of forcefully being reminded of the worst.
Appearing in the static are those jumper cables of friendship and those four white walls, painted colorless with an entirely new shade of isolation, imprisonment.
Running on empty now and eager to seize the poison score, anything to clear out these thoughts, anything but down!
If only I could remember what I was fighting for, the reasons have blurred to one and lost their meaning.
Simply a warn out engine block dried up and in need of fuel.
I’m trying to do what I can to stay strong.
But complications seem to arise when you know you’re wrong.
Honesty plucking at those strings and letting loose the melodic tune of knowing whose at fault.
Featured Artist : Jacob Bannon
Worthy words from a wise man: Bukowski
Currently listening to: City of Caterpillar
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteyour mustache has gotten epic
ReplyDelete