...reminding me that, while yesterday was not the greatest day of my life, it can always get worse. Which, today, it has.
I received a call from someone who is, well, something of a pest. I wrote about a project of his several months ago. It was not easy. Not only did I have to endure him for the better part of a day, but the article involved many hours of research before I could even begin writing. The writing process was slow as well.
From the day after I met with him, he has called regularly, asking when the story would appear. I explained to him -- the first time, and during every call thereafter -- that I have nothing to do with the story once it's sent to the editor. Said editor did say "it'll be in the next issue," but as magazines generally work on a given issue several months ahead, I could only give him rough estimates.
In this morning's call, the publicity seeking pest advised me he had just seen the latest issue, the one in which I was led to believe the story would appear. It wasn't there.
Suddenly, there was something more important at stake than placating this guy: as of today, it will be a minimum of a month until I am paid for this work. I was counting on the money. Just as I was counting on money from several other clients who always have the best possible excuses for not sending checks....
I really hate my fucking job. I don't want to do it any longer.
3 hours ago