Worlds & Time

Tuesday, January 10, 2006

Work

So the post before last was a love letter to work, and this is pretty much the exact opposite.

Being tied to a job that's weekend nights sucks worse than anything. Being tied to a job that breeds isolation is phenomenally poor planning on my part. I like work. I like being with the people there. But I don't see people outside of work, almost ever, not because I don't want to but because most of the time I'm simply out of time. Working an eight hour night shift is not eight hours, it's sixteen, because you have to sleep sometime, and people assume that because you want to sleep occasionally, you aren't interested in being with them.

Not to mention the hours that it takes to adapt every day to the night schedule. Most people understand that mornings are personal time for people, but my mornings are prime time. So when I need some time to myself, I'm violating the standards of society.

I'm going to applying for other jobs because I need another job to save up for Miami, and I was reading the classified ads. Just a moment ago I was reading an article about how suicidal people should take up sky diving because, heck, they've decided to die anyway, so why be afraid of death?

And at that point I remembered my dream job. Not the Miami Hotel job. That's actually secondary, because it's stable and potentially sedentary. No, my dream job is the traveller . . .

I don't have any business skills, so rather, I figure that it needs to be connected to hotels. So the job? It's secret shopping hotels. Crap, I'd kill for a job like that. Give me fifty weeks on the road every year. I wouldn't have to worry about the studio apartment, or never having enough time to work on my book, because I'd be the equivilent of sky diving, living without a net. It's not like I get out living here . . . but that job would be living on the front lines all of the time. Crap, knowing me I'd even start dating or something.

That would be life.

But do real people actually get those jobs? I think I'd need my MBA.

Well, crap.

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