We work too much. We work for too little. Work is our means toward others’ ends. Work is sitting in an office chair breathing recirculated air, dying slowly from a combination of atrophy, asphyxiation, and ulcers. Work is standing on our feet long enough to realize no shoes are comfortable. Work is not seeing sunlight for days. Work is breaking our backs under a beating sun. Work is feeling bored when we aren’t stressed and stressed when we aren’t bored. Work is surfing the Internet when we should be working and worrying about work when we are on vacation. Work is the time between wasted evenings with take-out, beer, and TV and exhausting weekends of outings, chores, and errands. Work is spending more time with coworkers than loved ones. Work is being part of a team on which we each do our own thing without input from each other and send passive aggressive emails about it. Work is losing interest in what we expressed passion for in cover letters. Work is complaining about customers, salespeople, patients, doctors, lawyers, clients, students, parents, teachers, assistants, managers, anyone. Work is making stuff we don’t need and convincing each other we do. Work is wishing it were Friday evening. Work is wishing we were sixty-five years old. Work is wishing we lived in Europe. Work is not being able to take it anymore and then taking it more.


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