Blogging about the job

I like my job. I really do. I still resent the vaguely prison like nature of being employed, but I like my job. I like the people with whom I work. I like working in downtown Seattle. I like getting paid. I like my job.

Having a job means not owning your time. You go in when the boss says. You eat when the boss says. You drink when the boss says. My specific job is stricter than others, but all jobs do dictate these things to some extent. It’s insulting and belittling, but I like my job.

I like my cube mates. My teammates in general are top quality people. They’re smart dedicated and to the best of my knowledge have no dangerous social perversions. Now I feel fortunate because I don’t actually get to choose my teammates. Or even my cube mates. It’s insulting and belittling, but I like my job.

Working downtown is a treat. The restaurants, the coffee shops, the Market, are all terrific places. But I don’t get to visit them because my job won’t let me. I might try to ‘cheat’ the company out of 15 minutes. It’s insulting and belittling, but I like my job.

I understand that I don’t have to like my job. That’s why they pay me. But sometimes I wonder about the trade. I feel trapped. I feel like I’m being overly supervised. It makes me wonder if I really am capable of making decisions about whether I’m tired or hungry or bored. No sir, I do not like it. But, if I repeat the opposite over and over and over again, maybe I can convince myself to drag my sorry butt into the place I call work again tomorrow.

I like my job. I like my job. I like my job. I like my job. I like my job. I like my job.