One day, I’m going to grab my coffee cup, hurl it onto the floor in a Thoresque fit to punctuate my seething rage at the fact that I’m trading in my one and ONLY life, one day at a time, to do THIS.
THIS. Spending my time at a desk, dissatisfied, taking orders.
One day I will flip this desk, scream my lungs out and run out the front door and never come back. I will spend my days drawing and doing necessary things, sure, but on MY terms. I have said this before, but… mark my words, I will get out of here. I will quit, to light the fire under my ass. I will quit being unappreciated and taken for granted and being apologetic and ashamed of what I do. I will have more Mondays like yesterday, where I say “Fuck you, I’m doing what *I* want today”, and be selfishly productive and get a million things done because no one is forcing me to be elsewhere and to waste my life for a dime.
People say “no one is forcing you to be there”. That is a lie. My landlord is forcing me. My government is forcing me. My culture is forcing me. Because those without jobs are bums, right? And unless you make use of that uterus of yours, you’ll never be able to justify wanting to stay home and doing what you want to.
I want my time back. Give me back my decade, wasted on “adulthood”. Give me back my minutes, hours and years which were ripped out of me for emails and document shredding and photocopying. Is it so selfish to want to apply myself where I want? Unrealistic, maybe… but selfish? Being the best I can be at what I do surely isn’t a waste, is it?
I wonder what sacrifices will have to be made…
But someday, I will run screaming, thrashing and howling out that door and never come back.
Living to work is no way to live at all.