After reading this somewhat impressive but overall disappointing “I Quit” e-mail that has been making its rounds on the Interwebz, I recalled a similar rant I had gone on exactly four years ago, to the date. I’m happy to say I have the same attitude today. Also happy to say I have found something I truly enjoy. For the most part. So, here:
Tonight at WaWa while I was waiting for my sandwich, I was honestly a little bit jealous of the employees constructing my delicious smoked turkey delight. I hate my fucking job and they seemed to really be enjoying theirs. Maybe a little too much, but that’s beside the point. The point is…fuck everyone. Fuck everyone who is trying to coax me into believing that I have to follow some bullshit path to success; that just because I work in a cubicle instead of behind a deli counter, I’m more successful or “on the right track” as society so elegantly puts it.
Today, I cut and pasted paper at my job. After a brief sigh of relief when I realized my elementary school was more than just a breeding ground for pedophiles, I had the epiphany that this was the most demeaning assignment I’ve ever been given. It was an incredibly meaningless task that certainly required less brainpower than making a sandwich. I’m not trying to rant on how horrible my job is. All in all, it’s really not that dreadful. It sucks really, really bad, but I like to make a bad situation worse, so I become a bit dramatic. But can someone tell me what the fuck is with this idea of doing something you hate just to achieve a meager living and gain enough self-entitlement so you can talk down to the barista at Starbucks when he fucks up your Grande Chai Latte? I know I’m young, but I work with people who are ancient, and I can tell they’re far from happy. Why does the vast majority feel the need to conform to the societal norms and pretend that they’re enjoying their life? It legitimately makes my stomach turn. Wake up, people. I spent four years of my life and invested a nice chunk of change in an institution that was supposed to provide me the means to achieve. Well, guess what – I’m cutting and pasting motherfuckers. I truly thought the last time I’d see a glue stick was when Robin Sosnow was sucking on one like a Push Pop during Miss Piazza’s first grade art lessons. Unfortunately, I was mistaken.
Most people I talk to tell me the same thing: “nobody really loves their job” or “work is work”. No, fuck that. I refuse to believe that. Call me crazy. Call me naïve. I vow to continue my efforts to escape the cube life. If you’re with me in this fight to end the self-loathing that comes with the 40-hour workweek, you will someday join me as we ride shimmering black stallions through the fields of waist-high pussy willows and naked, vulnerable women. Come join me in paradise, my compadres. Fuck everyone, I’m doing it my way. And if not, I heard WaWa is hiring.
This is how a writer makes a living in advertising:
He dives naked into a body of water whose bottom he
cannot see, whose currents are unknown, whose other
shore is unreachable and whose temperature cannot
be ascertained beforehand.
Every movement he makes and every moment he spends
below he is watched.
He is given only a brief hint as to what he is to retrieve
from the bottom and commanded not to surface until
he has found it.
Afterwards, his work is judged not on whether he
found what he was told to find but on whether what
he brought up made a roomful of cats sing.
I do not recommend it to you but if despite my warning
you indicate a wish to proceed by applying to the copy-
writing track I’m the guy who will sneak up behind and
push you into the deep end of the pool.