Of all the things to give up on, a job must be the most common.
Within the employed universe, my job isn't the hardest. Not even close.
Doctors Without Borders.
Missionary in the Congo.
Dude Cleaning Toilets.
Dude Making 3-Foot Buddha Head Carvings. At a rate of 17 heads each month. By hand.
These are hard jobs. You must come home totally drained.
Nor is it the most pride-swallowing or soul-destroying.
Clown For Hire.
Dude Selling Encyclopedias Door-to-Door.
Dude Asking You To Sign Up For Any Kind Of Worthy Cause With No Personal Benefit.
In fact, not quitting - especially after I've made these comparisons - is a point of pride. I'm made of better stuff, I shouldn't be ungrateful etc etc.
And at this point in time, quitting just doesn't seem responsible.
I also want to be a writer. Like a writer writer.
Which is perhaps the most common, no...the most cliche job in the world.
So the job I feel like quitting and the job I want are both common.
So, there's nothing special about me either way?
This can't be.
This is terrible.
This is common.
And still people stay.
And I'm becoming one of them.
That's what's terrible.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
My wife told me my dog was exceptionally friendly and affectionate on Sunday. He clung magnetically to my folks, and my in-laws who were over for dinner. He also climbed the stairs and peeked several times into the door of the home office. He usually wheezes slightly, but not that night.
The next morning, my folks found him; looking like he'd fallen asleep, leaving a warm spot on the floor. He was 15 / 105 years old.
My wife thinks he was looking for me that Sunday night.
But I wasn't there.
Coodie is a foodie who likes to drink smoothies.
Our favourite rhyme, sung one last time.