Some days, maybe even most days, I hate my job
I can’t explain why in rational terms, really. I enjoy my workplace and the people I work with; I’m at least competent, now, and the work isn’t very hard. And I’m allowed (as opposed to paid) to write, with essentially no constraints but space and obscenity laws. But something is lacking.
It’s strange, but I almost think the fact that what I do requires mental laboring is the whole problem. No matter how much I try to sell myself as a “common person,” ultimately, I’m an intellectual, or at least pseudo-intellectual, and a lazy one at that. Working wears out my brain, and I can’t do anything with it after the workday is done.
Mindless labor would almost be preferable, the kind of work that can be done “mentally mechanically” so the lower brain can take over while the consciousness drifts off elsewhere. To mull.
It sounds silly just to say, and probably if given my druthers, I’d just end up complaining about being physically uncomfortable or unappreciated. But as things stand now, the best part of my day is walking to lunch.
The most productive part, too.