It is official (not official)! I am allergic to work.
However this allergy not only manifest itself in the skin condition on my face which has become so bad that I need to wear makeup. But it wipes out any small amount of creativity which dwells within my fat carcass of a body.
Now I’m not referring to my evening job but to the day variety which involves me sitting in an office for seven and a half hours a day. Don’t get me wrong, it isn’t a bad job, in fact it is quite pleasant. However it doesn’t really allow me to do anything which makes me happy. I’m at the mercy of other people and must do what they say and not think for myself. If unchecked this can cause the brain to atrophy. Yet millions of us do it every day. Some of us never even question it and continue merrily along until we reach retirement age, when we take up hobbies and write terrible poetry while producing watercolours of arse all, because any lingering talent has been crushed by years of tedium.
So why do we do it?
In my case I need the money: I’ve got a pension scheme and a small yearly bonus and reasonable amount of ‘job security’ but is that really worth irreversible brain damage. The answer is of course, no. So to combat the rot, I’ve booked a few days off every month, to spend time with my favourite people and extricate myself from the malaise which overtakes me.
To begin with, I’m going to this event:
Yes, that was the worlds most elaborate plug.
Hahahahahah! Got ya!