Slipping into student life has not only altered my definitions of socially–acceptable existence (regular showering or eating things other than carbohydrates are no longer categorized as requirements, but time consuming luxuries) but that being flat broke sucks. Somehow, despite my earlier beliefs, spending your time studying or consuming alcohol does not lend itself to a full wallet. Discovering that my meagre funds were slowly funnelling out of my savings account and into my liver, I decided that it was past time to invade the working world. So invade I did.
The glory and triumph of being marginally successful only lasted so long; working in a call center may have successfully ruined my faith in humanity. One would imagine that informing people of the reason as to why their money is no longer available to them would at least evoke some sort of measure of thanks; unfortunately, this is not the case. Upon presenting a surprisingly large number of customers with the specifics, I am all-too-often met with a firm front of disbelief and a contrived conviction that I am making things up just to fuck with them. Congratulations retards; that is exactly what my plan is.
Despite the very solid fact that I am actually paid to pass on the correct information to those who assault me with questions and concerns, common belief dictates that those of us who you call for information, in reality, have none. The number of times each piece of knowledge is repeated to each individual client only serves to punctuate our uselessness to the customer, as well as the uselessness of their cognitive abilities. Subsequently, it turns out that most people have no idea how many numbers to read when asked for eight, nor that I actually need to hear them to be able to know what they are.
Unbeknownst to most callers, the mute button is one of our favourite tools. While they are kindly reminding me that honesty is important to the health of a relationship or asking what on earth we are doing as a country to charge such high rent, I get to giggle silently on the other line without penalty. The mute button could only have been installed to allow us to remain professional while informing the customer that all of their funds have gone to porn sites, alcohol and True.com. The customer may be mid-rant, but we are catching up on the latest gossip with our coworkers; you may think that you’re complaint about the fees charged is one that sets you apart and gains our respect, but it’s about as significant to my day as the sandwich that I ate earlier. In fact, less so (it was a damned good sandwich).
Thank you for calling customer service, please hang up; we really don’t give a shit.
The glory and triumph of being marginally successful only lasted so long; working in a call center may have successfully ruined my faith in humanity. One would imagine that informing people of the reason as to why their money is no longer available to them would at least evoke some sort of measure of thanks; unfortunately, this is not the case. Upon presenting a surprisingly large number of customers with the specifics, I am all-too-often met with a firm front of disbelief and a contrived conviction that I am making things up just to fuck with them. Congratulations retards; that is exactly what my plan is.
Despite the very solid fact that I am actually paid to pass on the correct information to those who assault me with questions and concerns, common belief dictates that those of us who you call for information, in reality, have none. The number of times each piece of knowledge is repeated to each individual client only serves to punctuate our uselessness to the customer, as well as the uselessness of their cognitive abilities. Subsequently, it turns out that most people have no idea how many numbers to read when asked for eight, nor that I actually need to hear them to be able to know what they are.
Unbeknownst to most callers, the mute button is one of our favourite tools. While they are kindly reminding me that honesty is important to the health of a relationship or asking what on earth we are doing as a country to charge such high rent, I get to giggle silently on the other line without penalty. The mute button could only have been installed to allow us to remain professional while informing the customer that all of their funds have gone to porn sites, alcohol and True.com. The customer may be mid-rant, but we are catching up on the latest gossip with our coworkers; you may think that you’re complaint about the fees charged is one that sets you apart and gains our respect, but it’s about as significant to my day as the sandwich that I ate earlier. In fact, less so (it was a damned good sandwich).
Thank you for calling customer service, please hang up; we really don’t give a shit.
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