Some Days I Quit
By Neil Davey age 31
Some days I quit, not in the “I stormed out of the office after shooting the boss a middle finger and a basket full of expletives, but I mean I really check out mentally. Physically I’ve checked out a long time ago, but Jill still punches my time card for me. I’ve quit the rat race, the long haul, the daily grind, the toot and commute, the do-or-die fudge pie in the sky as the kids say these days about 30 years ago.
I quit because I couldn’t stand being a part of something greater than myself, especially when what I am is pretty much a big trash heap of discarded flannels, old outdated sayings, and a pocket full of broken dreams that took the slightest amount of damage before shattering into a million unglue-able pieces and getting sucked into the cold air return.
I quit because my fellow colleagues and I disagreed on nearly every thing from which K-Cups were the most disgusting, to why anyone should make small talk with the UPS driver when he delivers the 14th package of office supplies, unpaid bills, and Amazon orders that someone could not sign for at their own home. We disagreed on the direction of the company and which way it should be headed. I had settled on sort of a downward and explosive vector pointed towards the 9th circle of hell or whichever turnpike takes you to Macon, Georgia. My colleagues believe in a higher purpose where we became efficient, productive, studious, constipated, wise-cracking, small-weather talking, water cooler hugging, windbags that couldn’t be bothered to remember Julie’s birthday. It was last Tuesday by the by. That, however, is neither here nor dear. The point is I can’t imagine a world where we as a society break off into our little groups and try to accomplish anything with our communication skills, weekly board meetings, and the marble and bronze sculpture dedicated to the “Eternal Promise of Compromise.”
When your professor asked you and your fellow students to break into groups of eleventy and you got saddled with the saddest sacks that were a blend of intelligent, anti-social, and peculiar bathing habits, did you ever think that you were going to get something accomplished? Anything at all? The eight page paper on “Gastrointestinal Designs of 17th Century Dolphins” that you were all supposed to collectively shit out, became a scene out of a procedural medical drama. Dr. Project Leader held the scalpel while the others barked orders and criticism. A few even masturbated quietly in the corner with their phones dialed into the latest game of Sugar Slam that they were too polite to put on mute, because why would anyone be decent anymore?
That is your career in a nutshell isn’t it? You’re either the Team Leader, the Critic, or the Masturbator and at the end of the day, no amount of floundering in any of those roles makes you any more of a “Big Girl” with your “Big Girl” britches.
It pulls you further away from the real truth of what you are. Someone with their own thoughts, concerns, fears, creative orgasms, and vacation photos. Someone who doesn’t identify with any mission statement, creed, philosophy or brand tag that your company trots out at the faintest whiff of profit. “Here at Cats are Bags in Boxes Dot Com we believe that Tacos are our future.” Of course they are, but that’s not the point. You and I are so beyond the point it’s not even remotely amusing.
I quit. That’s the point. Not in real life, but in a physical, mental, spiritual, sexual, financial way. Except not financial because I have to fund my Cat’s expensive fur coat habit because that Puss has got expensive taste, and the minute you deny what your loved one’s want the most, then you become judge, jury, and executioner on the 9th Circuit of Appeals of Fun Court. That’s an appointment made for life and you ain’t got time for that business. Just keep your head down, tie your shoes in little bows, color outside the lines, eat Cap’n Crunch from a salad bowl, and use the cheese grater to itch those hard to reach spots. We may not be career minded but we will be just fine.
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