On that day, humanity received a grim reminder

I feel raped by Unilever's online assessment tests. I thought applying for a fucking job would be writing cover letters and answering questions about my education, not solving a fuckton of math problems in 20 minutes and another fuckton of logical tests in 12 minutes. 12-fucking-minutes for 24 questions. 20-fucking-minutes for 20 questions. WHAT.THE.FUCK.

Nothing is a decent job and everything hurts.

Pay for art school and become a REAL artist

I'm still unemployed, so I might as well rant about life.

You what I really hate? Despise? Want to exterminate? Erase from planet Earth? Murder like a heartless motherfucker I am?

People who call themselves "artists" and can't even draw a fucking circle or write a description of an empty bag of crisps.

Seriously, why? How did this happen? Why there are thousands of stupid morons who say "I'm an artist!" and have never created anything worth something?". You know what I noticed? I noticed that basically every single person who goes to art school calls himself an artist. You draw like a five-year-old with permanent brain damage but your parents pay for your fancy art school? INSTANT ARTIST. Didn't improve at all in the last three years but attending a posh art college? SO ARTSY.

To be honest, I can call someone an artist when the actually created something. For instance Stephen King. Or Stan Lee. Dave McKean. JK Rowling. Those people are real artists. Created characters, whole universes and those creations are beautiful. I write a lot and I WOULD NEVER call myself an artist. I think even if publish my first book I will still be reluctant to call myself an artist or a writer. Those words are big. Too big for me. But for those spoiled, talent-less kids from art schools? NAAAAH. They are REAL artists.

I know one girl like that. And I swear on me mum, I'll break her neck when I meet her. Because there is no way you can be so narcissistic and arrogant, while drawing like a kid from kindergarten.

To war!

The Perfect Natalia, as every perfect creature in this world (not that we have many of them) is very creative. What seems to be useful in her career as graphic designer. He works in a cable company, designing interfaces, billboards and other graphic stuff I can't even name, because I suck at art in every form. But anyway, The Perfect Natalia is also doing some side-projects for extra money. And it's a side project that made me so fucking angry today, that I completely forgot about my shit dissertation, ready to go to war.

For the last month, The Perfect Natalia has been intensely drawing tons of things for one guy, who is in fact, a physicist. Not that I'm prejudiced, but every physicist I met (excluding The Perfect Natalia's sister, who is awesome) was a fucking, slow-witted moron. I was hoping this one would be different but obviously I was wrong. From the very beginning, the guy couldn't decide what he really wanted, and the amount of projects was increasing (what was noted by myself very carefully, because I don't have a heart, I have a tiny, mean accountant in place of it). Maybe you don't know, dear readers, but when you hire a graphic designer it is similar to hiring a taxi driver. Or a hooker. You pay for every minute and every move made. And The Perfect Natalia worked for days and did stacks of projects. So, the physicist was about to hear some dreadful news about the amount of money he has to pay.

Today, our beloved employer called The Perfect Natalia saying, that to be honest, he won't need any of those projects, it was fun, we don't have to pay you, do we? Well, dear Mr. Physicist, you have to pay. Because that's how life looks like. Life is a bitch and from my point of view, you'll soon become mine and The Perfect Natalia's bitch if you start fussing about the price we sent you. So you better bend over and take what you deserve. Because excuse me, last year I successfully destroyed some old hag who also didn't want to pay my Perfect Natalia and I don't mind ruining this guys' life. My inner man roars for blood and I'm ready to mentally rape in the ass, without any lube, with a massive, black cock everyone who stands in our way.

I've reached the point where I should consider consultancy. Or in the more severe cases - organized crime.

Shoot me in the face and sing a victory song

My supervisor finally replied to my email.

At first, when I was reading it I thought "whoa, I'm fucking awesome!". But then after the very positive introduction it changed into "disasters", "wrong statements", "bad data" and "nonsense". Reading the comments causes me physical pain, because there is no way I can fix this. Why? Because I already sent my hard copy of the dissertation to Warwick. Also, when I was sending my supervisor the finished paper A WEEK AGO I clearly stated in my email that I WILL SEND THE HARD COPIES ON MONDAY 26TH OF AUGUST, because they need to be on time and I AM IN POLAND, YOU STUPID, OLD FUCK. He didn't react to that and ruined my life today at 2:37pm.

I'm generally screwed. Because I can't fix anything, because Warwick already has a different version. Also leaving me with ONE DAY to do some major modifications is plain cruel. There is so way I could fix the mistakes, print it and hand it in on time, even if I were in the UK.

After the initial shock that made me scream, cry, break everything, run like a headless chicken, call my Mum, my friends at Warwick, The Perfect Natalia, the prime minister and ultimately, the Pope, I calmed down. Because if I can't fix it, why get paranoid about it? What's done is done, there's nothing I can do about it. So nope, I'm not going to go mental about something that I can't change.

YOLO MOTHERFUCKERS.