I've mastered fakeness. I truly have. I think this might mean that I'm officially a full-blown adult, since I get paid for being just that - fake.

I (involuntarily) left the accounting field late last year. After tiring of the state employment office route, I took a job I knew would get, would be easy, and I was perfect for: customer service agent at a call center.

For the last 8 months, I've taken 45 - 60 calls a day from prepaid cell phone customers of A T&T. The job requires minimal computer skills, and decent verbal skills. I'm excellent at it. I sound like the friendliest, most polite and caring customer service agent a guy's ever heard.

Such is my acting ability, that I've been promoted - not to tech support, which is the next level of customer service agent, but straight to "resolution specialist." In normal English, this means I strictly handle callers who've asked to speak to a supervisor. These callers are pissed, and need someone to curse at.

I've become a zen-master of fake concern. My pulse rate no longer accelerates when I'm being yelled at. I zone it all out, wait for a pause in the customer's rant, and respond with polite reassurances of concern and forthcoming resolution. That, or respond with a soothing, apologetic, straight forward, well-worded, "you're shit out of luck" type response.

It all seems so evil when I stop to think about it. I miss the angry young man, that would've told callers to go fuck themselves, and gotten fired a week out of training. The guy who was never going to compromise, nor build the wall around himself, and meet all of life's shit head-on. He was awfully amusing at times.

But, meh, fuck it. I guess I can forgive myself. A guy's gotta put food on the table after all. It beats stealing, anyway.

I just wish I could come up with new drawing every now and then.