I try to wake up at seven every morning in order to, before I go to my soul-numbing job, attempt to achieve something with the day. Usually this is writing or editing some of my prose. I find that having this as part of my routine allows me to feel better about how empty, fruitless and boring the rest of the day tends to be.
My job requires no thought, no engagement, no effort. When I ask questions or try to have conversations I am snapped and sneered at. It’s a horrible working environment. It’s supposedly a tech company and yet they have so little social media interaction that the fact that I bitch about it several times a week on a blog accessible via two easy links from my LinkedIn page has not been picked up.
The majority of my time is categorically a write-off. I do nothing of value for nine hours a day. Which is sad. One of the many things my huge social media presence is compensating for is my lack of a career.
But by putting in some work before my job, my days can feel a bit more acceptable. This becomes a problem, however, when I drink three sazeracs between eleven and half twelve the night before and struggle to peel myself out from under the duvet until eight o’clock.
My job is so easy/I’m so apathetic about it a slight hangover does not affect my abilities at all. All that is lost is the time to myself – the hour I choose to dedicate to working, rather than selling myself for a pittance. It’s irritating, this waste of time job filling my time. I end every day with such remorse, such regret… and even more so if I’ve failed to achieve a single little thing.
If one does not move, one rots.
I mustn’t rot. I mustn’t rot.
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