A bad week at the office is like a bad day fishing, if by bad you mean you’re the fish and the hook ended up in your bunghole.

That was my week. Week and weak enough to make me figure a few moments looking at the resume and some classified this weekend could be time well spent.

I don’t know for sure if I’ll leave this gig. The benefits are pretty huge, it’s now close to home and overall people seem to dig me. Moreover, a former dean of a major university gave me excellent feedback on my paltry scribblings so far. Awesome feedback actually, while treating me to lunch at the faculty club.

Picture the scene. I write crap about my pathetic existence to amuse myself, and I’m sitting in the West Coast version of ivy-covered ivory towers chatting about it over a club sandwich. A successful academic and psychiatrist no less.

Bizarre.

It would be a lunch I never enjoyed and editing I wouldn’t have gotten without this job.

But, fucking A. If it doesn’t stop feeling like “The Devil Wears Prada,” the ignomies will outstrip the perqs.

Answering a few want ads can’t hurt.