#corporte

[webdesignclub]

Ventus - Corporate Web Design | Simple web design features that look clean and help organize info on your site - Web Design / Application UX

[shahajadamollik]

#flyer_design

Are you looking Graphic Designer. Yes, you are right place in now. 

contact:   [email protected]

[creativedivias]

http://klou.tt/wqxromtoceg6 #Corporte #Business #Flyer

[freewhispersmaker]

CORPORTE FINANCE

    CORPORTE FINANCE

  An important component of this course is providing you with a challenge to learn about (researching) and develop a solution to a problem that has not been covered in class. This is what happens every day in the real world. New problems pop up and the manager has to get as much information as possible about the problem (research) and then develop a solution to the problem-…

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[corporateaesthetics]

[oguzhanbulbul]

[mortreport]

radio silence

I come back from surgery a week earlier than everyone expects. I'm slow, a shuffling, shambling zombie, whacked out on pain pills. But I'm bored of being at home, watching episodes of Doctor Who and trying not to sleep on my right side because it hurts.

My general manager calls me into his office to talk about some mundanities. Numbers, percentages, whether I'm hitting what and where I should be and why cremation rates are so high. I'm focused on the throbbing on the cheek, the scar that's too new to even be called a scar yet. Red, angry, my face swollen and my eyebrow immobile. I tilt my head forward so I catch every word.

"This is going to hit you out of left field," he says, looking somewhere between serious and bemused. I feel my stomach drop somewhere to my ankles. "but we found your blog."

If my eyebrow could move, I'd raise it sardonically. It was never hidden, never something I was ashamed about. I've written truthfully and honestly, always. That's been the purpose of Mort Report from the beginning.

"I spoke to HR about it, and while you're technically in the clear, I need you to take care of some things."

My skin prickles. With the pending divorce, I need all the cash-flow I can get. I'm wondering if this is my pink slip.

"You need to make it completely anonymous. Nobody can know where you're writing about or from." Cripes. 1984. "And you need to make it private. I've looked through most of the entries and I'd like you to delete the newest one." I think back to the last entry, debate on the difficulty of removing it. I hate to hit the delete button, feel like I'm comprising some integrity.

I try to keep the indignity out of my voice. "You know I have stacks of e-mails and comments from readers who love the fact that I write truthfully about what I do, right?" He meets my eyes, nods, but I can tell the argument holds no water. "Seriously, I can't think of one negative comment, and I've been doing this for more than a year."

"I know," he replies. "I'm sure it seems old fashioned, but I just don't like it being out there."

My almost-scar throbs in time with the thrum of my heartbeat. The blood rushes into my ears. I'm so frustrated I feel like I could pass out, but instead I nod. I bite my tongue to keep my mouth closed. And the keyboard has been mostly quiet ever since, no tap-tap-tapping as I watch my direct deposit and link photos instead.