I hate working in an office. While it may pay the bills and keep food on the table currently, I loathe devoting 40 hours of my life every week to some isolated corner cubicle facing away from the rest of the office. All day every day I hear the fast hurried heavy footsteps fly behind me; PJ, a fellow coworker's sandals, jingle jangle like sleigh bells with every step she takes, alerting everyone in the office of her presence. The President, is the worst and most quietest. It seems, whenever my computer screen veers away from my intended work, I can hear a wisp of lightly padded shoes blow past me as all I see is a cloud of salt and pepper hair float by. Shit! I think to myself as I click back to my approved screen.I wasn't meant for work in an office. Not a serious one run by Baby Boomers. No, I should be able to telecommute as I please, drink macchiatos at a coffee shop and read over my work. Skype should or would not be just an app on my iPad for personal use.
I am 26 years young and I feel stunted. This is not my idea of an ideal lifestyle. I'd be making more money, I'd be committing less time (or at least not be counting down the hours upon arrival of my work destination), and I'd be travelling. I am doing none of these things. My next ambition would be to sell all of my belongings and buy a Winnebago and drive around the country living out of my car for a year. Maybe then I'd write that "great american novel" my mother is always blathering about. I think she is my one and only greatest fan. If I ever manage to get published I'd probably dedicate a book to her, if she plays her cards right, but I digress.
The problem with my writing is tangents. I think I have ADD as I can never solely focus on one train of thought. Perhaps it's because it's Monday and my brain is still trying kick start. Perhaps the alternator of my neurons is not registering to the starter in my brain. My body is an engine and yet I don't feel quite at rest...more so dead.
I wonder if other people with favorable jobs, hate Mondays. I wonder if I didn't hate Mondays would I be one of those workaholics; married to my job and to invested in myself. Now I just feel tired all of the time. If my parents had warned me that being adult entails a lifetime of tiredness I probably would've ended my life at 22. At 22, everything seems to go downhill. Your body deceives you, the things you once did with ease, hurt or make you sick. The things you consume can have negative consequences. You begin to settle in relationships because you know you're not getting any younger and all of your friends are starting to pop out engagement rings or kids, or both.
Mondays make me hate life, not because I miss the warm comfort of my dog and my bed, not because I'm the opposite of a morning person, nor the reenactment of my commute, work, commute routine. Mondays represent all of the bad in the world. Nothing but a purely negative emotion swaddled in lack of motivation and realizing this was not the life I had once imagined for myself. I can't wait to be finished with Grad school so I can get the fuck on with my life and at all costs AVOID Mondays.
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