In Shynes Mind

Open Letter

Dear Work:

      I hate you.  There.  I said it.  I've known you for a very long time – more than half my life, but I've never really hated you until now.  I realize that you're not supposed to be all fun and games or else you wouldn't be called work, but seriously?  You suck.

     If you're even interested in bettering yourself, Work, here's why I hate you:

  • I hate your temperature.  At no time when it's 90 degrees outside should I have to dress like I'm going to Antarctica when I'm actually just going to Work.  And when I'm still cold at my desk despite a space heater and a sweater over my sweater and tank top, well then you've just gone too far, Work.
  • I really dislike some of your inhabitants.  Especially those who think that they're better than me for no reason whatsoever.  Look, Work, I know that only I can allow myself to fall into their line of thinking that they actually are better than me, and I won't do that, but why don't you slap some of these people around?  Why don't you try an etiquette class that says "When someone looks you directly in the eye and says 'Good morning', the proper thing to do is say 'Good morning' back.  Smile, nod, wave, grunt, SOMETHING."  Because honestly, Work, I might smack a bitch the very next time one of them looks down their nose at me rather than opening their mouth.
  • Hey, Work, guess what?  I am not stupid.  I am actually pretty smart.  You really just don't encourage me to be anything more than a lump on my chair.  Granted, I don't need your encouragement to be great outside of your damnable four walls, but inside your bowels, my own personal hell, you really should learn some communication skills.
  • Know what else, Work?  You literally drain the life fluids right out of me.  You took a vibrant flower and turned it into a patch of brown goo.  A few years back, I was actually enjoying my life but damn you, Work, you took that away.  Sure, I'm slowly working my way back to enjoyment, but just like the 100 minutes of my life wasted during Universal Soldier, I'll never get those years back.
  • Even though this isn't your fault, Work, I still hate you for it.  The economy SUCKS BALLS at the moment which means that, especially here, either no one is hiring or those who are expect you to have a Master's Degree to fetch your coffee for $10 an hour.  That means that I'm stuck with you, Work.  But don't think for a millisecond that I'm not always on the lookout for something that doesn't suck.

So there, Work, there you have it.  I hate you and I know there's no love lost between us.  I am better than this black hole of soul-sucking filth, flarn and filth and we both know that.  Oh yeah, thanks for the torture but I really must be on my way.  SOON.  I'm sure that one day, Work, we'll both look back on this letter and laugh our fool heads off, but at the moment, I'd like to light it on fire and jam it up your ass.

Hope you crumble to the ground on a weekend (since there are actually people here that I DO like),

MiamiShyner

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12 thoughts on “Open Letter

  1. Dear Work:
    It is entirely too cold inside your dark and demented bowels for me to be glue. Therefore, anything that bounces off of you will hit me and either me or it will shatter. I have no fear that our crack cleaning crew will get to the mess, though. In a few days.
    Love,
    Brown Goo

  2. I'm sure that one day, Work, we'll both look back on this letter and
    laugh our fool heads off, but at the moment, I'd like to light it on
    fire and jam it up your ass.Oh that was just too good.

  3. Hear hear! Or is it "here here"? Anyways, I agree with the above, except I would substitute Universal Solder for Dirty Work with Norm MacDonald.
    The upside, I won't exactly be in your neck of the woods come tomorrow night, but I will be in Florida. At 6pm today, I am outta here for a much-deserved vacation with my best friend who resides in Clearwater, Fla. πŸ™‚ After the week I've had, I may just start crying after I disembark from the plane in Tampa.

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