a worker at five/an era wasted
26 July 2006
Today, it dawned on me that last Friday, July 21, was my five year anniversary at my job.
What a fucking company man.
I don’t talk very much about my job here because, well, I’m not stupid. A regular paycheck is something that I enjoy and I would like to keep receiving. Also, insurance is nice, especially since 120 pills of Xanax would cost me a pretty penny on the street (through my insurance: $5).
And to be honest, there’s not too much to say about my job. I do marketing/pr/financial research for a large corporate law firm. I like it a lot. I find the work interesting. My co-workers are cool. The job is zero stress. The pay is good. I can walk to work in about 25 minutes. And I rarely work late (my average day is 9:45 to about 6:30). I might even love my job. I don’t know how many other non-famous 27 year olds can say that about their employment.
I could honestly do what I do for the rest of my life and not complain. Sure, I’d like salary increases and promotions and all that jazz, but I could make a good, happy, comfortable living at my job and be content. I can see myself in ten years living in a suburb in New Jersey, loving a sweet unsuspecting wife who maybe is missing something physical (hand, knee, etc), raising two horrendously obese children, owning a large dumb dog and a luxury automobile, carrying on an affair with one of the lawyers I work with, drinking myself into a state of emotional deadness, spending sleepless nights praying for a heart attack - basically, living the American dream.
But of course, that doesn’t mean that I don’t aspire to other things. While I can appreciate how good I have it right now in the corporate world, that doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t like to get paid to write jokes about shitting myself while sitting in my underwear in my bedroom, taking frequent beer and jerk off breaks. Also, with a big bag of Tostito’s and a jar of Amy’s Organic Black Bean & Corn salsa, which is the greatest salsa I’ve ever had – by far. Great fucking salsa.
And I’m kinda close to this writing poop jokes while eating/drinking/masturbating for a living thing. Or rather, I recently tasted its sweet sweetness. Regular readers know that I took off almost four and a half months from October to February to "work on my projects," namely this and this. The former was "rolled," which means I’m only starting it now, and the latter I’ve learned is more like an ongoing, never-ending process that will end only if I die or if I lose my eyesight. Since I’ve been doing a lot of experiments recently that involve fire and cans of hair spray, I’d say the blindness is more likely, but death is not that far behind.
What I’m trying to say is that during those four-plus months off, I did very little. I actually can’t remember a single day from any of those days. I’d wake up around 1, eat, and hang out. Then my old roommate Brian would get home and we’d hang out. Then when he went to bed, I’d "write," which is to say, I’d sit at the computer, get drunk, and compose long, harshly-worded emails to ex-girlfriends that I’d never send. Then I’d go to bed. Repeat 130 times. I wish I were joking here.
Now, I work full-time, spend an hour a day at the gym, write this blog, work on both projects, AND still find time to live a (semi-)happy and (not really) promiscuous lifestyle.
So today when I realized that I’ve been working for five years, I felt pangs of regret because I took so little advantage of that time off. The most exciting thing I did was drive from Seattle to LA, but we all know how that ended up. Otherwise, nothing.
And never again will I have that sort of time off. Which makes me very sad. For the rest of my life, I’m stuck here, at my desk, doing shit for someone else. And none of this hit me until today.
(Let’s face it: all this other stuff is going to fail. And I’m not saying that so you’ll send me emails saying "Oh come on Jason – it’s gonna be great and you’ll be a success!" I’m saying it so you’ll send me some booby pictures. Seriously, what gives? I used to get a few a week, or at least one a week, but I haven’t gotten booby pictures in probably two months. Was it something I said? Something I did? Just when I thought I was going to break the record for most pictures of boobies without faces, the well runs dry. Thanks a lot, jerks.)
(You know what – forget it. Don’t even THINK of sending me them now out of pity. I don’t want your goddamn pity boobies. Keep them to yourself.)
I don’t even know where I was going with this, but the points are:
1) I’ve been working for the same company for five years and I just turned 27 (though I like my job)
2) I’m pissed at myself that I didn’t take more advantage of my time off
3) I’m busy now and it sucks
4) I don’t want your pity boobies
5) This post is completely fucking retarded or at least very incomplete because I have great difficulty writing anything about work
Yeah, that about covers it. Um, more tomorrow.
What a fucking company man.
I don’t talk very much about my job here because, well, I’m not stupid. A regular paycheck is something that I enjoy and I would like to keep receiving. Also, insurance is nice, especially since 120 pills of Xanax would cost me a pretty penny on the street (through my insurance: $5).
And to be honest, there’s not too much to say about my job. I do marketing/pr/financial research for a large corporate law firm. I like it a lot. I find the work interesting. My co-workers are cool. The job is zero stress. The pay is good. I can walk to work in about 25 minutes. And I rarely work late (my average day is 9:45 to about 6:30). I might even love my job. I don’t know how many other non-famous 27 year olds can say that about their employment.
I could honestly do what I do for the rest of my life and not complain. Sure, I’d like salary increases and promotions and all that jazz, but I could make a good, happy, comfortable living at my job and be content. I can see myself in ten years living in a suburb in New Jersey, loving a sweet unsuspecting wife who maybe is missing something physical (hand, knee, etc), raising two horrendously obese children, owning a large dumb dog and a luxury automobile, carrying on an affair with one of the lawyers I work with, drinking myself into a state of emotional deadness, spending sleepless nights praying for a heart attack - basically, living the American dream.
But of course, that doesn’t mean that I don’t aspire to other things. While I can appreciate how good I have it right now in the corporate world, that doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t like to get paid to write jokes about shitting myself while sitting in my underwear in my bedroom, taking frequent beer and jerk off breaks. Also, with a big bag of Tostito’s and a jar of Amy’s Organic Black Bean & Corn salsa, which is the greatest salsa I’ve ever had – by far. Great fucking salsa.
And I’m kinda close to this writing poop jokes while eating/drinking/masturbating for a living thing. Or rather, I recently tasted its sweet sweetness. Regular readers know that I took off almost four and a half months from October to February to "work on my projects," namely this and this. The former was "rolled," which means I’m only starting it now, and the latter I’ve learned is more like an ongoing, never-ending process that will end only if I die or if I lose my eyesight. Since I’ve been doing a lot of experiments recently that involve fire and cans of hair spray, I’d say the blindness is more likely, but death is not that far behind.
What I’m trying to say is that during those four-plus months off, I did very little. I actually can’t remember a single day from any of those days. I’d wake up around 1, eat, and hang out. Then my old roommate Brian would get home and we’d hang out. Then when he went to bed, I’d "write," which is to say, I’d sit at the computer, get drunk, and compose long, harshly-worded emails to ex-girlfriends that I’d never send. Then I’d go to bed. Repeat 130 times. I wish I were joking here.
Now, I work full-time, spend an hour a day at the gym, write this blog, work on both projects, AND still find time to live a (semi-)happy and (not really) promiscuous lifestyle.
So today when I realized that I’ve been working for five years, I felt pangs of regret because I took so little advantage of that time off. The most exciting thing I did was drive from Seattle to LA, but we all know how that ended up. Otherwise, nothing.
And never again will I have that sort of time off. Which makes me very sad. For the rest of my life, I’m stuck here, at my desk, doing shit for someone else. And none of this hit me until today.
(Let’s face it: all this other stuff is going to fail. And I’m not saying that so you’ll send me emails saying "Oh come on Jason – it’s gonna be great and you’ll be a success!" I’m saying it so you’ll send me some booby pictures. Seriously, what gives? I used to get a few a week, or at least one a week, but I haven’t gotten booby pictures in probably two months. Was it something I said? Something I did? Just when I thought I was going to break the record for most pictures of boobies without faces, the well runs dry. Thanks a lot, jerks.)
(You know what – forget it. Don’t even THINK of sending me them now out of pity. I don’t want your goddamn pity boobies. Keep them to yourself.)
I don’t even know where I was going with this, but the points are:
1) I’ve been working for the same company for five years and I just turned 27 (though I like my job)
2) I’m pissed at myself that I didn’t take more advantage of my time off
3) I’m busy now and it sucks
4) I don’t want your pity boobies
5) This post is completely fucking retarded or at least very incomplete because I have great difficulty writing anything about work
Yeah, that about covers it. Um, more tomorrow.
