Sad Boy Hates His Day Job Part 666

     Having been American Dreamed into a mountain of debt that I will more than likely never pay off, being able to walk away from my bullshit office job is becoming more and more unlikely.

     I end up spending most of my time teaching management how to do their jobs.  It is indescribably disheartening trying to politely explain to an idiot that gets paid more than I do that they are, in fact, an idiot.  Bill Hicks once said something about teaching dogs card tricks.  It is very much like that. The corporate culture of failing upward is in full swing.  Being able to hear someone's blank stare over the telephone or an email is not something that I ever thought would be possible but it is a regular occurrence now.

     It doesn't help matters that the building that I work in makes no sense either.  The diesel exhaust for the power generator is right next to the outside air intake for the ventilation system.  This means that every Tuesday when the generator is tested, the building is filled with diesel fumes and makes me want to succumb to the sweet relief of carbon monoxide poisoning.

     I used to take every opportunity that I could to stick my nose in a book while at work but lately the place is so exhausting that I end up sleeping for a few minutes instead.  As much as I would like to read the collected writings of Eugene Debs, I can't keep my eyes open anymore.

     That seems to be a large part of the Capitalism/wage slave cycle that I'm stuck in.  The job keeps me worn down to the point that I can do little else other than show up at a desk at 7am.  Keeping the brain dull and the body in decline.  After twenty years, my lower back has been destroyed to the point where I have trouble walking without intense pain.  My chiropractor has probably been able to put an addition onto his house with the amount of times I've been through his office.

     And yet I still show up every day like an idiot.  Instead of taking a cue from my coworker who got themselves a six month “disability” vacation because they lost a fight against the candy machine in the break room.

     I keep having flashbacks of family gatherings where all of my uncles would sit around talking about their day jobs for the entire afternoon and over the years it turned into my cousins doing the same thing.  Two generations of people that were unable to identify as anything but their source of income.  That's one of the reasons that I stopped going to those things.  The main reason being the not so casual bigotry but also not wanting to talk about my employment when I'm not getting paid for it.

     One of the few upsides to my mountain of debt is that I can at least claim some sort of ownership to my house.  With home ownership I am somewhat protected when the crosshairs of gentrification are aimed at my neighborhood.  As much as upkeep and maintenance are a drain on my psyche, my mortgage payment will stay the same while everyone else's rent doubles.  I'm already getting offers in the mail on a weekly basis from scumbag house flippers that want to buy my house.  Gentrification has always made me wonder where people go when they can't afford to live anywhere.

     Due to the ever changing media landscape, I would have trouble spinning the writing/photography thing into a sustainable source of income.  Everything is freelance since these digital media conglomerates are buying up every outlet and laying off the the staff positions that have steady paychecks and health benefits.  On top of that, the world is already filled with an over abundance of writers and photographers that want to get paid for covering music so finding my way in as a hobbyist would be a challenge.

     And I'm pretty sure that the world doesn't need the opinions of yet another rapidly aging white guy.  I don't say that begrudgingly due to the fact that white guys have been the predominant voice over the past several hundred years.  It's been well past time to broaden the spectrum of voices that have a platform.

I'm saying that I more than likely missed my shot.  I should have wholeheartedly dedicated myself to this enterprise back in my early twenties when I could survive on half a pack of ramen noodles and three drops of Pepsi for a week and I was the only person I needed to look after.

     Instead, I opted for the safe route that landed me where I am and with few options besides sitting here filled with varying levels of existential dread.