Jobs

So, the suck has returned. Because sometimes it all gets just that little bit too much, and you start to think you're never going to make it, and you're not half as funny as you think you are, and you suck at trivia nights even though you have a fancy degree, and you're quite ugly compared to everyone else because you realise you never look good in the mirror in the elevator and it's hard not to look good in a tiny moving space, it's really really hard, and you have nothing interesting to say but you're a writer so you better have something interesting to say and every time you tell your father that you have a play on the first question he asks "And how much does that pay?" and 'they' still haven't listed that as a reasonable excuse for patricide and you're starting to feel old, like old old, and tired and you still haven't got anything interesting to say and you want to buy stuff but you know it's just stuff and so you look at the people that have stuff and don't know it's just stuff and you're jealous.

I blame this on jobs. I hate jobs. Sorry? Oh, you didn't hear me. I said, I HATE JOBS! Yeah, I know you do to. Or perhaps you don't. Perhaps you accept jobs as the way of the world and just get on with it. You own stuff too, don't you? Thought so.

Eight hours (and that's without the travel which is a specific and particularly evil form of torture that we will leave to another day) of sitting, sitting, sitting. That's all I really do. I sit. Occasionally someone I work for and I seem to work for a lot of people will come by or more usually send me an email and say can you do this? And I just do it because that's what jobs are. Doing shit for other people. I hate that bit too.

There's lots of things I hate. I hate it when they come near me and I hate it when they are a ten second walk away from me and choose to send me an email. I hate it when they put cheers at the bottom of an email that explains how the rest of my day is going to be screwed in 12,000 different ways. Cheers this, I say. I hate it when I say No Problem and it's really a huge fucking problem. I hate it when I hand over the work and they say thanks and I say You're welcome. They're not, I don't know why I keep fooling them into thinking they are.

Oh. Yes I do. Because they freaking pay me. That's right. I keep forgetting the small point that I'm not sitting, sitting, sitting out of the goodness of my heart but really because I'm being paid to do it. That lightens the load somewhat.

Carry on job soldiers.