On Eurydice there’s a live version of Jeff Tweedy singing “Dear Employer” at maybe First Ave. but I am really not sure where. At the end of the song, after singing “That’s the reason that I quit, that’s the reason. . .” he says, “That sounds really good to me. I think everyone should quit their jobs tomorrow. That’s what wrong. I don’t say many political things, but really that’s the only thing that’s wrong with the world, people have to work . . .”
And as I am sitting here in my dark cell at Hell, Inc. sucking down bad coffee and wondering where I want wrong I just think, “Amen Mr. Tweedy, Amen.”
My apathy is at its peak. I’ve just returned back to Hell after a long four-day weekend. Before I ran from the building on Thursday, I celebrated (or rather mourned) my eight year anniversary of working here. Eight fucking years.
What the hell?
I spent a lot of time this weekend pondering what to do next. I don’t hate my job. At least I don’t hate it more than any other job I might have. The benefits are nice and I love my co-workers. But still. . . eight fucking years. I worry that I’ve grown too complacent and comfortable. I feel like I should jump ship to greener pastures or some such bullshit.
But then I worry that any other place will be just like this place minus the coworkers I love and the five weeks of vacation. And really the biggest question is why won’t someone pay me to read books, eat Nutter Butters and dabble in writing short fiction? Because that’s what I really want to do with my time.