I wrote this in 2004, when I was working at a very, very lousy job:
All I wanted was a job in an office. Hour long lunch breaks, benefits, days when the girl in the next cubicle brings in brownies. If I'm going to have a job that sucks out my soul, why can't it at least be in a place where I don't have customers threatening to kick my ass?
I don't remember writing this, but it's in my handwriting, so I guess it was me. And dude, the girl in the next cubicle over has brought in brownies on more than one occasion.
And you know what's really weird about it? The job somehow actually doesn't suck out my soul. Most days anyway. Working in crap jobs I often comforted myself that at least I hadn't sold out. What made it worth the death threats at the head shop, the rape threats at the group home, the grease burns at the burger place - what made that all OK was that I hadn't sold out to the man.
But now that I have sold out to the man, I spend more time volunteering than ever before, more money on charity than ever before, and even though I sit in front of a screen all damn day long, I spend more of my free time writing than ever before. Is it harder to write when you don't have all kinds of suffering? Hell no. I've had plenty enough misery in my past to keep me stocked up on good material for possibly the rest of my life.
Also, I have enough money for candy and Hello Kitty toys.