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So I've been having a bad year, to put it mildly. It started off well enough, I got a message from a former co-worker that he was running the warehouse/tech dept at a separate company and I should put a application in because they could get me out of my dead-end job (for another dead-end job). Put my application in and I got the job! It went well enough for a few months until one day (mostly) out of the blue I was fired for not being fast enough. Although I never missed a deadline. (I think my bosses boss just didn't like me but I have 0 evidence to back up that claim.) I was out of work for a few months and then something awesome happened. I found a job still working with the printers I was familiar with that paid a whole 65% better and was for the most part... a piece of cake. Until one night I was running the one big complex copier I was unfamiliar with and got a message that a certain supply was low. Several Google searches later (and a few bad judgement calls) I put a liquid where a solid was supposed to go. Derp of derps. Needless to say, I got a call the next day and was promptly fired and the company is probably out a month of time and a considerable amount of money. And that brings me to a few days ago. Aside from being nearly out of money entirely to pay my bills, I accepted a job offer than may have actually been a bad idea. The job is virtually identical to the place I was at for 5 years, they even have pretty much the same machines. Problem is, All three of these jobs have the same tech support for their printers. The job with the machine I broke isn't on my resume and it's almost certainly going to come out when one of their lead techs comes in to fix their machines. He didn't like me before this all happened to begin with. I've already talked to several people and they've all agreed I didn't need to have it on my resume and that I shouldn't mention it unless questioned. I don't like being dishonest. The new place doesn't have any of the machine I broke. (I don't think) I've never been this apprehensive to start a job with a interview that went so well. Week 1 is gonna be rough. Hope there's a week 2. I'm really lucky to be living with a group of friends that are supportive. But this is a bad year however you slice it. Feel free to yell at me or otherwise give your input.

Hallo! I really, really hope other people have stories to tell here because I don't want to be the only person on the KSP forum that comes off looking like I have the intelligence of fungus, but here goes... The place I work has rotating shifts, so two out of every six weeks I wind up on midnight shift, which ranks pretty close to influenza on the average scale of fun. It's impossible to really sleep during the day, not just because of the whole circadian rhythm thing but because the young family in the apartment above mine includes a kid I've taken to calling Thor: Child Of Thunder. He's a toddler who's just learning to walk, run and, if the revberations are to be believed, perform floor-exercise gymnastics. So in general terms, when I go into work for midnight shift, I do so bearing a remarkable resemblance to an extra in 'The Walking Dead'. Fortunately, on this shift I work in a supervisory capacity and given the fact that the Pressman operating the machine has a heck of a lot more experience in type than me, my job mainly consists of providing another set of eyes, a second opinion and (most importantly) a decision when things aren't going right, it's fairly easy. Not that I'm one of those supervisors we all despise: the 25-year-old in the spotless lime-green Dockers shirt saying things like "How can we correspond in a meaningful and forward-thinking way?" No - I've been working in this trade a long time and I know my business very well - but in a trade where twenty years is considered entry level, the senior crews work at a level that makes mere experience meaningless - they understand print and print publication on an unconscious level and during the shifts when I'm operating a press beside them, I'm honoured to learn from them any chance I get. In return, though I'm the least-experienced Pressman with only 25 years in the trade they treat me as an equal, and respect the different knowledge I bring from other forms of print publication. Therefore, when I've got the top slot on this shift, we work well together; discussing problems with colour-curve and ink density. Sometimes I'll go into the pre-press computer and try to fix an obvious file problem, but usually I just need to decide where a particular job's quality threshold should be, help the pressman work out solutions (Print is not easy) and make a final decision...and then have to defend the decision to the suit-and-tie brigade the next day. I get to deal with problems the pressman can't - such as a page with an ad for baby formula on one side and an ad for crushed tomatoes on the other, producing an amazingly life-like picture of a baby that's just been through a blender - and the like. Basically, I'm just trying to say I'm not a complete idiot here. The problem with being the one that has to do the thinking on the shift though is that I have to remember to not leave my brain on the nightstand when heading for work. So there I was, in the locker room at 11 o'clock at night, making 'Uuurrrr' sounds. One thing about working on the presses: Those machines are big - built along lines usually reserved for battleships and Mecha-Godzilla and they pump out heat like crazy. In other words, it's hot on the press-floor; easily approaching 40 degrees in summertime and far higher between the units and I don't sweat - I rain. I really didn't feel like carrying a lot of things I probably wouldn't need, so I left the things I usually carry (wallet, keys, knife, trimmer, Ph. tester, thermometer, caliper, loupe and a whole lot of other little doo-dads) in my locker, just taking my Ballpoint Of Doom and my glasses. I got as far as the door to the pressroom before I realized my mistake - it's a security door with an E-card reader and my passcard is in my wallet. Oops. So I had to turn around and return to my locker. I will now give you all the chance to re-read the above paragraph, to identify the true depths of my bone-headedness at this particular moment...(smooth jazz is deployed) Yup...keys. In the locker. Locked by a padlock. Insert facepalm here. Which means I found myself locked in the entry corridor with no way in or out...other than the (alarmed) fire door. Yeah...no thanks. Other people? Not at 11pm - the only people in the plant is the one crew, and me...you know, the responsible one. What makes it even better is that the door is nowhere near the press, so I had to hope that someone on the blasted machine would happen to look over and see me waving through a 1 foot square piece of glass from 100 feet away. At some point, one of 'em wondered whether or not I was going to arrive at work, and called me. I cannot possibly convey in mere words the frustration of listening to my locker play 45 seconds worth of 'Girl Anachronism' by the Dresden Dolls while I stood and steamed. Half an hour later (or thereabouts) someone finally noticed me doing excessively energetic hand motions and then the fun really started. Really - with an average age of about 40, you'd think these bozos individuals would be a little more mature than standing, laughing and waving cheerfully as if they didn't have anything better to do. I shouted at them: " !!!!!!" (Soundproofed door...fortunately) The individuals bozos (well...five bozos and one bozette) finally wandered over and opened the door, allowing me to enter with all the stiff dignity of a cat who's just done the through-the-kitchen-powerslide-into-the-chairs maneuver. Of course, after the obligatory laugh, I couldn't start work just yet, I had to do something about my locker. Would you credit it: a plant this big and not a single bloody pair of bolt-cutters in the entire place?!? Ahem. I had to make do with a crowbar. End result: one padlock still unopened without even a scratch and one seriously eviscerated locker, which I have just gotten home from having to explain to the building manager. He was not pleased. Fortunately, I'm rather bigger than he is. Yep...fun night. Well...bedtime; I hope I can get there without doing anything else ridiculously stupid, like hitting 'send' on this post before I'm finis