I truly pondered the idea of getting a corporate job with benefits, 401K, vacation time. The whole damn works.
But as I spoke it out loud, “get a corporate job” vs. “build an exciting career as a fiction writer who can live anywhere he wants, makes up his own hours and meets fascinating people,” the first choice got me drooling.
Who in their right mind would want freedom? Name one single person who would turn down the opportunity of a grumpy manager who berates you in front of all your apathetic co-workers. God, I can’t wait to sign that W-4 and wait three months before I can get a paid vacation.
I’m gonna sweat bullets over two failing companies that wish to hire me. Fun thing is, I get to crate my dog all day. Clean up her poop after an eight-hour shift. Or find the right doggy daycare that has that funny stench of ammonia and the threat of a kind pup turning vicious against my little baby.
Can’t wait for the depression that will sink in after week one’s nervousness. I wonder what psychiatric medication will be tossed my way eventually. So much to look forward to.
Stupidly, I chose the life of freedom. What a dumbball I am. Write what I want, when I want. Grow spiritually, financially, emotionally. I’d rather rot in the corner during long, drawn-out, repetitive corporate meetings.
Oh well, guess I should shower now.
