Malaise

I hate my job. And it’s all because I went to Italy.

Two years ago a friend of mine was studying in Rome and invited me to visit. I was comfortable with my routine here, working 40 hours a week to make someone else rich so I can spend two days of freedom on the weekend sleeping in and trying to get laid. But over there I really enjoyed the idea of exploring this different world without having to work. Why does it only have to be two days of freedom every week? Then I went to Venezuela and it was even better. I was taken out of my comfort zone where fun wasn’t served on some tour package platter. The simplest things like eating a meal or catching a cab turned into adventures. And the girls—so hot. :tard:

I started to dislike my job after Venezuela, until I read a couple job interview books (in the bookstore, of course) and found a new gig that paid a lot more. But the extra money only kept me happy for a couple months. Maybe it’s not the companies I don’t like, but the idea of working for a company. I don’t like following orders from a boss I wouldn’t spend my free time with—someone I don’t respect. And I definitely don’t like spending a third of my waking life in an office building.

Spain made it worse. I was sure I didn’t want to commit my best years working to save enough money when I’m too old to enjoy it. I don’t want to play golf or bingo, ever.

Most of us are on the capitalist path: to go to school, get educated, become a good worker peon, spend money on consumer products, and die. My immigrant parents thought this would be best for me, so I can’t fault them for pushing me into getting a college degree to have a life that is easier than 99.5% of all human beings in the world. But I just don’t think it’s for me.

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