I never say this here, because I'll likely be caught and fired immediately, but I hate my job.
(There. I said it. Right out in the open internet.)
I'm sitting in my windowless cubby, under a huge, dehumanizing fluorescent light strip, staring at a computer screen and waiting for my life to happen. I spent the morning at a women-in-business networking breakfast where I listened to a roomful of ladies in power suits pimp themselves to each other by passing out business cards and using phrases like "my industry," "consulting management" and "start-up" and pretending that Twitter is a valid field of study. How these women sat through business school without puncturing their veins with a ballpoint pen I do not know. I could never be a captain of industry. I'm probably smart enough—I just very fundamentally do not give a shit.
My job has the potential to be great. Most of what I do is at least 60% creative or project oriented and my overall aim is to raise money to help people. The mission of our organization inspires me daily. That said, any warm fuzzies to be found here are almost instantly negated by the overall douchebaggery rampant in the working world.
My ideas may be good and my ass may be on the line, but I remain a pawn. I work for people who want it both ways. "That is your responsibility," they say, but they also have said (and I quote), "You are the help—and the help move boxes. You don't make decisions."
Thing is, would it be better anywhere else? The more hours I put in, the more ass I kiss, the more Henry Miller I read . . . the less I feel like spinning the plates.
I don't belong in the office world. I never have. My tolerance for politics and posturing and the writing of memoranda was questionable to begin with and plummets daily. I get increasingly angry at the futility of how we these forty hour weeks are spent, then angrier again at myself for my own deficiency. Why can't I just be a good little girl, keep my nose clean and my chin up?
Oh. Right. The curse of the artistic temperament. Damn.
More on my permanent disillusionment with adulthood later.
(There. I said it. Right out in the open internet.)
I'm sitting in my windowless cubby, under a huge, dehumanizing fluorescent light strip, staring at a computer screen and waiting for my life to happen. I spent the morning at a women-in-business networking breakfast where I listened to a roomful of ladies in power suits pimp themselves to each other by passing out business cards and using phrases like "my industry," "consulting management" and "start-up" and pretending that Twitter is a valid field of study. How these women sat through business school without puncturing their veins with a ballpoint pen I do not know. I could never be a captain of industry. I'm probably smart enough—I just very fundamentally do not give a shit.
My job has the potential to be great. Most of what I do is at least 60% creative or project oriented and my overall aim is to raise money to help people. The mission of our organization inspires me daily. That said, any warm fuzzies to be found here are almost instantly negated by the overall douchebaggery rampant in the working world.
My ideas may be good and my ass may be on the line, but I remain a pawn. I work for people who want it both ways. "That is your responsibility," they say, but they also have said (and I quote), "You are the help—and the help move boxes. You don't make decisions."
Thing is, would it be better anywhere else? The more hours I put in, the more ass I kiss, the more Henry Miller I read . . . the less I feel like spinning the plates.
I don't belong in the office world. I never have. My tolerance for politics and posturing and the writing of memoranda was questionable to begin with and plummets daily. I get increasingly angry at the futility of how we these forty hour weeks are spent, then angrier again at myself for my own deficiency. Why can't I just be a good little girl, keep my nose clean and my chin up?
Oh. Right. The curse of the artistic temperament. Damn.
More on my permanent disillusionment with adulthood later.
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4 comments:
Meh... It might be better than feeling like a sixteen year-old runaway and having to lie about your job to everyone, therefor securing your isolation, carelessly indulging your alcoholic tendencies because poured down your throat, aggravating your chronic insomnia by working til early morning and coming home keyed up for hours, and hindering the possibility of love, ever...
Oh dear. I'm WITH YOU. I'm in the Ivory Tower of Higher Learning and there's still rampant douchebaggery. Every time I think THAT'S IT I'M OUT I realize it would be worse almost anywhere else. I would prefer not to be a grown up. Or, better yet, to fast forward to retirement, but still be young and have a pile of cash. Or maybe just to have a pile of cash.
No one likes their job. If you did, you wouldn't call it a job. Some days will be hard, no matter what you do or where you all. But try to remember what's great about it, or not bad about it, and stick with that.
A wise friend once told me & I pass it along:
"Do what you can"
"Want what you have"
"Be who you are"
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