Dispatches from The Company

I don't have any revelations about the unexpected and widespread lay-offs at The Company. Or, at least anything too original to say about it, except that the recession the pundits and Fed bozos have been predicting is already hitting close to home. The very sweet but unlucky girl next my cube was one of those blindsided. As I carried her pet fish up the parking lot to her car, we felt uncomfortable discussing the details with the security drone following closely behind us. I didn't know what to say anyway. It's one of those moments where you find all the hopeful statements you can muster and offer them up like a cup of soup -- warm and nourishing but you still feel empty afterwards.
From what I understand, the rest of us are safe for now. As for morale, it's been damaged probably beyond repair as anyone worth their salt and who can find work somewhere else is probably trolling careerbuilder as I write this. So essentially what will remain is the shaky, feral animals who can't jump ship because they don't know how to swim. I feel pretty safe for as long as I remain there (10 weeks and counting) as Exhibit A for an EEOC suit continues to snuggle warmly in my womb, but there are no guarantees.
What I will add is that, tkc, this cowtown's own Chicken Little, may not be so wrong about the impending doomsday for the downtown renaissance after all. Many of the young pimps at The Company purchased those overpriced lofts downtown in a futile attempt to be young, hot AND urban. And that's all downtown needs -- a wave of foreclosures or desperation sales in the lap of nouveau riche luxury.
For now, I'm treading water and hoping no one goes postal. My post-traumatic stress disorder superior survival skills have yielded a proper plan of escape should such a bloody contingency occur, but I'm not at liberty to share that tidbit.
Wish us luck, eh?

In happier news, here's a photo of my brand new little cousin [Blank] Michael Smith born just last Saturday.