I Hate My Job I Hate My Job I Hate My Job I Hate My Job I Hate My Job I Hate My Job: Or I Hate My Job
Work has been particularly soul crushing lately. To counter this I have been trying different methods of reassuring myself that I am happy, fortunate, well-adjusted, etc - basically what some might call “methods of coping,” but which I refer to as “methods of ingesting a ton of substances that may or may not have any considerable effect on my mood.” Because coping just seems hard.
It’s been a couple of weeks now and I am ready to analyze the data. Here it is:
(Disclaimer: None of what follows is intended as medical advice. If you need medical advice, you should go to your doctor. Or to google.com because the internet is a wealth of valuable information. You can even buy pills without a prescription from India. It’s awesome.)
Commentary: I stopped drinking caffeine for a stretch of time so I think starting up again at what you might call a ferocious pace might not have been the best idea. Still, I don’t do things half-assed, and coffee is delicious and I think caffeine may possess some physically addictive properties. Anyway, it turns out that caffeine’s most valuable effect may be that taking a break to get yourself another cup of coffee is a nice little interlude during busy stretches of droning labor. Plus trying to concentrate with the incessant tapping of my own foot provides an added difficulty factor to doing work, kind of changing things up.
Commentary: Since I think it’s still technically frowned upon to drink in the office, I had to get a little creative here. I would drink a lot more than I normally would the night before, hoping that it would carry over into the next day. (You know the feeling, when you wake up and start drinking water and all of a sudden you’re drunk again, like your body is reflexively responding to the motion of your arm bringing the glass to your mouth). It kind of worked, but where I got stuck is that eventually I would get a hangover, and my hangover cure is normally a bloody Mary, which I CAN’T DRINK IN THE OFFICE. This must be what they are referring to when they call alcoholism a “vicious cycle.”
Commentary: I never knew this, but with most of these supplements (Ginseng, Omega-3, etc.) you have to take anywhere from 6 to 8 pills a day. Once I realized that I had been doing it wrong all these years (taking just one in the morning) I was excited to finally reap the benefits. Instead, by the time I took the final two Ginkgo Biloba, Green Tea extract and Omega-3 capsules at the end of the day I was ready to vomit. On the plus side, the nausea did distract me from the wretchedness of my job as I was more concerned about not throwing up in the middle of the staff meeting than anything that was actually being said at the staff meeting.
Commentary: I figured I could fix the problem of having to take 8 pills by getting all the same supplemental goodness from one stiff drink (Arizona Herbal RX). I took one sip and said out loud, “That’s not good.” But as though my body was immediately addicted to the health it offered, I downed it in a matter of minutes. Two things of importance to note: 1. We have come to a tricky place in civilization when we are forcing ourselves to drink things that we dislike in order to feel better about our condition. Vodka tastes good. Beer tastes good. Arizona Herbal RX does not taste good. 2. Despite the very strong desire to do so, it is never acceptable to try to show your pee to another guy in the bathroom because it is so insanely fluorescent. I mean insanely. Like, you almost rationalize that of course he would want to see this, it’s insane. But still, unacceptable.
Commentary: While I’m still young and it’s physically impossible for me to get fat, I feel it is my right and privilege to eat a bag of cookies for lunch. Some might argue that if it’s such a right and privilege, why do you keep the bag hidden in your desk drawer so no one will see you shoving them in your face? And to those people I say, “Don’t hate me because you are fat.” Then I go back to work, wiping the tears from my eyes with another cookie and, in an act both symbolic and delicious, take another bite.