Sweltering Heat

My vacation? I'm not going to write about sweltering heat. I had enough of that in Phoenix, where I knew it was pointless to say so, but I kept saying, "Damn, it's hot. Like, really really hot." No, I'm not going to talk about that. I'm not going to say that it got so motherfucking hot, my shoes actually melted to the ground and I had to call the fire department to get me loose. Of course I wouldn't say that. It didn't happen.

Fuck Me, It's Back to Work
I'm sure most people are sick of me complaining about how much I hate my job, so maybe I shouldn't talk about that either.

But I will.

Goddamnit. Why do I have to work? Why couldn't I have been born into a nice, healthy trust fund?

I was commiserating with a fellow low-level government functionary today as we walked over to Starbucks. "If there was just some sort of way to get the money, but not have to do this job to get it, I'd be fine," I told him. "Even better," I added, "I'd prefer taking the money, and not working for it at all."

Because therein lies the crux of the situation. You like that word? Crux? Okay. Good. The issue is that all jobs suck.

Oh, you bastard. You're probably saying right now, "I'd be really happy if I had that promotion," or, "Life would rule if I had such-and-such a job," or, "I'd get bored if I didn't work."

Fine, keep telling yourself that, you poor, miserable wretch. I'll stand here with my feet firmly planted on the plane of reality knowing that all jobs suck. If you woke up one day and suddenly had a billion dollars (or whatever amount would sustain you at a rockstar-like level for awhile), you can't say you wouldn't quit your job, no matter how great a job it is.

You can't sit there and honestly say you wouldn't write your resignation letter on your manager or boss's wall in permanent marker (and by resignation letter, I mean you'd write up, "FUCK YOU, CUNT!"). It doesn't matter if they were nice or mean to you--you'd do it. You think I wouldn't? My resignation letter would be in smoke signals: I'd gather up all the office supplies I could get my hands on and collect them in a biiiiiiig pile in my manager's office, throw on some toner and dry-erase board cleaner (which is really just rubbing alcohol--shhh, don't tell), and light it up. Yes, I'd light a huge office supply bonfire. Who needs to give two weeks notice when the smell of burning plastic really gets the point across for you?

First day back from vacation was obviously a shitty one. I change my voicemail to say, "Hi, you've reached Mr. Medinski in Los Angeles, California. I will be out of the office May 27th and May 31st for the Memorial Day holiday." Six fucking messages. Why? The subtext of my voicemail was this: "I'm on vacation bitches. Leave me alone." Fuck. I hate voicemail. Voicemail is like some sort of Work Creation Device. People leave these messages. Our agency actually has a 24 hour call return policy. All calls must be returned within 24 hours. THEN, I found out that nobody really checks to see if calls are returned within 24 hours. What's that mean? The 24 hour call return policy does not exist.

I had two meetings today, though. Somehow, this made life MORE difficult. Usually, I enjoy meetings simply because they're not work. I believe the Webster's Dictionary defines 'meeting' this way: Group of people sitting in a room trying not to work. Usually, donuts are present.

Yes, for entertainment I always push the donuts down towards the morbidly obese man to see how many he'll eat. Don't tell me I'm cruel, or an asshole. I don't like him. And it's somewhat entertaining. You ever see a man nonchalantly eat a donut in two bites? Nonchalant is the key, here.

But the meetings made life difficult, because they were interspersed with work. Since the meetings didn't take up the entire day, that means I had to keep returning to my desk to do shit to look productive. I think printing out Quizno's coupons online and emailing my coworkers to say, "Hey, I just printed out Quizno's coupons," gives the perfect image of productivity. Also, if you stand over a coworker's computer and stare intently at the screen while talking about the grumbling in your stomach, this can work as well.