One unfortunate result of "work" is that it has spawned its own sad "humor" genre.
Sent at
Meredith: here's a haiku:
Unfortunately
Not addicted to yoga.
I’d stretch for beer, though
Sent at
me: hahaha Lolzzz
love it
barfed last nite, speaking of beer
Meredith: you've reached your goal!
Now that I’ve been in the “work world” for about three weeks now, it seems I know all I need to. Which amounts to the following: sit down, shut up and try to look busy.
After sliding into the “swivel chair” at my “desk”and exchanging niceties with my “coworkers,” it takes almost four minutes for me to start glancing at the clock and wish that the next eight hours were over immediately. Staring at a computer screen for the entire day feels like a rare and very effective form of torture when you’re hungover, and even when you're not, but I suppose that’s the price one pays for waking up in a pool of their own indulgence. So throughout the day, I sit and engage in various non-work activities, including but not limited to: g chat, email, trying to think up a gimmicky blog that references the late nineties a lot and will therefore make me like a lot of dollars, drawing animals on post-it notes and imagining that they will sell for like a lot of dollars because I am actually a genius, and contemplating whether or not the world is an evil place, all the while attempting to gage if the person walking behind me has the clout to fire me for playing spider solitaire (and kind of hoping they do).
About five hours into the “work day,” every ounce of life has been drained from my soul, and I’ve lost the will to go on, as by this point I’m pretty certain that the world is an evil place, and that human existence is indeed a sad one in that it has resulted in the invention known as the “spread sheet.” My skin has turned the pallid shade of the walls and I’m fantasizing about running out into the street and setting things on fire. And the fact that nobody else seems to feel this way ostensibly means they are satisfied with carrying out their lives in a cell, breaking only to eat dinner and sleep with a boyfriend who won’t marry them (gleaned from intra-office fodder), and for that fleeting forty-eight hour reward for sitting and staying known the world over as “the weekend.”
All I’m saying is that this little tableau amounts to a little less than a legitimate reason for being a living human. And I’m really not sure if others have failed to notice this, or just decided not to do anything about it. Some may think this entire argument (work is dumb!!!11) is completely asinine, and that one should be “lucky” to have a “job” as a “productive member of society.” These people are full of crap. I sure as hell didn’t sign on for a lifetime of florescent-lit purgatory when I was born, and I’m also sure that even about five minutes into my tenure as a non-fetus, I would’ve had the good sense be like “fuck that.”
So, humans, what’s the deal with “work”? Give me some idea of what this whole “work” thing does to your sense of being a live human being (ie whether it makes you want to stop living or not) and perhaps we can figure out an alternative to this crime against humanity together.
2 comments:
i'm really psyched that gmail automatically saves gchat seshs.
I obviously have no answer for you, but putting "work-realted" things in quotes really does help to reaffirm the distance desired from all things "official" and "professional" and "managerial" and "mergeable".
let's meet to talk about this.
i disagree that others don't feel that way. no everyone is willing to ask themselves tough questions (i.e. why the f am i here?) or they've just internalized that this is what they are 'supposed' to do.
people hang their cathy cartoons in their cubical to remind themselves that they are funny and that there is a needlepoint or a pot roast at home. these are the things they like, not work.
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