I never really liked going to work. It seems fine enough at first, but about a month or two into any job I’ve had I’ve come to the conclusion that a month or two is pretty much enough of that.
Which is true, by the way. It’s natural, and a sign of good mental health, to hate the idea of going to work every day. At some point we were all sold on the idea that a good work ethic is a part of being a good person, but human beings aren’t very well suited to the office environment. Bees would be great at it, but they don’t interview well.
The worst thing about working is that they make you do things you don’t want to do. I know, right? You’re just expected to go along with that, and maintain a cheerful and positive demeanor all the while. In theory all the phony smiling is meant to make your coworkers feel better about having to be there with you, but I’m not convinced by that idea. In my experience, watching the people around me consciously try to look happy only makes me want to kill myself all the more. Or all of them. At that point, the choice of which comes down to effort, and I already told you about my work ethic.
Most people carry on well enough, smiling politely and trying not to quit. They get angry over things like missing staplers because it’s the only thing they’re allowed to feel. Also because a stapler is sometimes needed to keep their smiles in place.
Conversely, unemployment is boring specifically because of the wealth of options available. You can spend days at a time considering myriad choices without ever actually doing anything. When you finally do pick a path, how can you truly enjoy it knowing that you could be doing something else?
Also, at some point you’re going to run out of bologna. Then what?
Unemployment is a real mixed bag. In theory, being able to masturbate whenever you feel like it should be worth the struggle, but my rent is due in a week. Maybe I can pay the cable bill with masturbation, but my landlord is far too conservative to understand the value of alternative currencies.
The one thing I legitimately miss about working—apart from money, I mean—is riding the bus twice daily. I always felt like I was a part of something on the bus. Nothing good, probably, but something. It makes you feel in tune with the city, or at least the mumbling, unwashed masses. Nobody on any form of public transit is smiling because they’re supposed to. Nobody cares about you one way or the other. It’s fantastic. I’m normally quite averse to places where people can see me, my stupid hair or the stupid curve of my stupid spine, but on the bus I’m just another bus person. All the benefits of being alone, but with solidarity.
It’s also a great place to listen to music. No matter what song is playing, if you stare out the window I guarantee there’s never been a more perfect music video.
Normally it would be dangerous to listen to music in public. I might start to drum on my lap subconsciously, move my head in a rhythmic fashion, or otherwise indicate to everyone that I like music. They might even be able to sort out the genre, at which point one might as well just wear a t-shirt with the exact length and girth of one’s penis written on it.
But on the bus I’m just another depressive fuck, babbling erratically to tinny noises and ignoring everyone around me. At least I like to think so.
I forgot where I was going with this. Possibly nowhere, like with my career. Haha! Haahaaaaaeelp me?