I hate my job. I really do.
I hate it more than anything. I hate it completely. Not even a pair of Crocs could make me hate it more. If somehow my job had a Facebook and its updates appeared in my newsfeed and there was no way to unsubscribe from it and all it ever posted was crap about how much it loves Twilight, The Hunger Games, Dr. Who and the Madea movies I still couldn’t hate it more. My job could smell like onions, look like Goatse, taste like spiders and feel like fingernails getting peeled back and the roiling hellfire that consumes my brain whenever I first lay eyes on my boss in the morning would retain its unfettered fervent brilliance.
And, I know, first world problem. I know. Trust me on this, I’ve run this through my head a million times or more. I am incredibly lucky to be able to work on computers and make as much as I do. I know that there are kids in Africa getting eaten by hippos and shit, worrying themselves to sleep every night about whether or not an animal is going to sneak into their encampment and drag them off into the inky chirping void to be fucking eaten. I celebrate their resolve.
But, I think pressures are all subjective. Sure, the twig snapping outside my window isn’t a hulking weed-beast that’s been tracking me for days and dreaming about what my neck meat tastes like. But, swap “window” for “cubicle” and “hulking weed-beast” for “soulless limpdick supervisor” and all that stuff about neck meat for the shaft-blood-flooding star-spangled fantasies that piece of shit has about firing me, and we’re suddenly on the same page. Every single day is a struggle for me and that Congolese child I’ll never know, just another step into that foreboding mist.
Even as I type this green-squiggly line burdened wall of text, I reflexively stab “WINDOWS KEY + M” whenever I hear footsteps behind me. Can’t let bossman see me not doing any work. If even the slightest inkling were to persist in his mind, like Old Faithful, I can pinpoint down to the exact fucking second when that snide and condescending policy-quoting email will appear in my inbox asking for my compliance with the company’s meandering bullshit treatise concerning downtime.
Do they understand why my department even has downtime in the first place? We’re IT. Downtime means we’re doing our fucking job and doing it exceptionally well. Downtime means no issues. People are happy.
I guess he governs his affairs with a “farmer’s eye”. There’s always something to do. But the thing is, in IT, most of the time there really isn’t. Our entire job is to make sure that the machines built to do things on their own (think Windows Update, not Skynet) are doing things on their own. If the right lights are blinking, everything’s good mang.
All day I sit at my internet-less desk and daydream about quitting. How I would save up and buy a megaphone and stalk from office to office screaming obscenities in different, sometimes entirely made up, languages until the clucking hens that run this place and their fragile psyches are reduced to twitchy, drooling hysterics.
I’ve been staring at this picture all day.
That’s what Google says is the other side of the world. That’s literally as far away as possible. And that’s where I want to be. That’s the middle of the ocean. I’d rather deal with Maori pirates, giant squids and whatever the fuck made the Bloop than spend another day here.
I used to wonder what made people want to put themselves out there completely.
It’s fear. A all-consuming fear of the otherwise. All you need is a job you utterly despise. One that imbues you with a passionate seething so overwhelming that it saturates the very atomic bonds of your existence. One that gets wound within the twisting whipping threads of energy that keep the universe intact.
Then you’ll pretty much do anything, really. Even that.