tellhimfred.com

Many of us hate our jobs.

But I have managed to raise it to an art form.  I’ve been working at the same nonsense now for about twelve years (thought not all at the same company) and no, I’m not going to tell you what it is, since I’m shitting all over them.  Ah, who am I kidding, they’re probably reading it right now.  Anyway, I’ve discovered that I’ve raised “hating my job” to a new level.  The level of intellectual and creative rape to which you are required to submit in order to “properly carry out your job” here is staggering.  Imagine someone hands you a bucket of sand and tells you “You must account for and index the properties of every grain of sand in this bucket. And you must be able to answer questions about each grain and its properties on command.” And behind that bucket you see five hundred more and the person says “when you’re done with that bucket, start on the next.”

That’s my job. Depressing, no? It does pay reasonably well, though, and somehow I’ve managed to become good at it.  But last night I realized that I have completely sublimated the hatred for my job, pressed it down to the point that it actually manifests itself externally, in things like “alcohol abuse” and whatnot. Seriously, if I take an emotional inventory at any given moment, “I hate my job” is not actually on the active roster. It’s been forced onto some unseen level, repressed by my practical and survival-oriented forebrain, which realizes that if I were allowed to continuously experience the full horror of how much I actually loathe what I do for 8-12 hours a day, five days a week (sometimes six and seven) I would almost immediately succumb to some wasting illness and die. A wasting illness other than cirrhosis of the liver, that is.

I need Regime Change.