There Must Be Some Kind of Way Outta Here

"So, how was your weekend?"

What the fuck kind of a question is that? How can any answer be satisfactory?

"Excellent! I found out that you can drink four pints of human blood before you throw up!"

As if Mondays weren't bad enough, some asshole in the office has to spend the first two hours making rounds between the coffee machine, the copy machine, and the cubicles asking everyone how their weekend went. First of all, why do you care? The answer is, you don't. You're just asking everyone about their weekend so, out of politeness, they'll ask you, and you can mention that your five-year-old got his black belt in karate on Saturday. The absurdity of giving a black belt in any martial art to a five-year-old notwithstanding, you need to step away from my cubicle before I put a fucking staple in your eye.

"Not so good, our dog Rusty died. Even worse, he died of worms so we weren't able to salvage any of the organs."

This job is seriously going to kill me, though probably not directly. The actual task of killing me will go to the police officers in the parking lot that mow me down when I exit the lobby with an assault rifle, covered in the blood of my co-workers, especially that guy with the ninja five-year-old. The sweet release of death; even better if I can get it done before lunch.

"It was okay. I think I may have contracted genital warts, though. Would you mind taking a look?"

People always claim that you're not defined by what you do for a living, but that's complete bullshit. Watch any talk show and it's always "Please welcome Dwayne "Dog " Chapman, professional bounty hunter and media slut." This is what he does for a living, and this defines him. What about the guy that works at the coffee shop while going to school to learn how to pretend to be an intellectual? Those activities, working at the coffee shop and going to school, define him until he chooses to change those activities. What about the unemployed asshole that smokes weed and plays Xbox all day? You better believe that people know him as Skeet Ulrich, that guy with no job.

"It was great! After five glasses of wine, my wife finally let me put it in the butt!"

What you "do" does define who you are, at least in an immediate sense. What's the first question you're asked at a party after "What's your name?" and "So, how do you know Skeet?" The routine third question is "What do you do?" I hate that question. I hate it because it's expected that you answer in a sentence or two, and elaboration is forbidden unless you do something really interesting. "I'm a trapeze artist," or "I work the impact hammer at the slaughter house," or "I'm a billionaire media mogul that owns %6 of everything on the earth."

And honestly, is there anything more pathetic that the "qualified answer?" You know, the pieces of shit that state what they do to pay the rent, then follow it up with what they do creatively? "I wait tables at Chesty's Sports Bar, but I'm really an actress. Here's one of my headshots" or "Right now I'm in sales, but I hope to have my novel finished by the end of the year."

The best are those assholes that don't even have any ambition and try to dress up their pathetic jobs. These are the "custodial engineers" and "beauty technicians" of the world.

"My weekend was fine, why, what do you know about it? What did you see? Who are you?"

But what's the solution? Does anyone ever get to do what they want? Imagine that thing you do creatively (everyone has something), now imagine getting paid to do it. Seems perfect, right? Except that now, it's no longer a hobby, it's your job. You've got deadlines and customers and you don't get to do it when you want, you do it because you have to, and that makes it a lot less fun because you're no longer in control. You hit rock bottom right about the time you no longer enjoy that that thing you do, and it becomes just another job you can't wait to quit.

The problem is that there is no answer. There is no perfect job, hell, there's no perfect anything. The best we can hope for is something that keeps our interest, something that doesn't make us want to murder everyone in the office then take our own lives, and something that we can feel just a little good about at the end of the day.

A great quote from Tom Robbins' Still Life with Woodpecker is "We waste time looking for the perfect lover, instead of creating the perfect love." There's a lot of truth to that, and it applies to many other aspects of life. Instead of waiting for the perfect person, or job, or house, or philsophy (none of which actually exist) you have to find the one that fits best and change yourself to be best suited for it. The very act of compromise makes it more valuable because of the work required to get to a place where you can be happy and feel good about what you do.

Except, of course, for me. There's no hope for me. My job sucks like you couldn't even begin to understand, that that fat ninja-daddy is the least of my problems. But the search is on and I'm certain I'll find a better place for myself soon enough. Maybe at your house.

Perhaps if I started charging memberships to the OTR I could sustain myself, because the generous endowments the Institute receives are barely enough to keep the lights on and fresh ice in my Scotch. If every reader were to contribute a paltry $24.99 per month, I'm confident I could clear upwards of $74.97 each month (don't worry Mom, you won't have to pay).