underachiever.

I've mastered the art of working minimally.

And honestly, it makes me hate my life exponentially less than when I was actually taking seriously any of the 238743874 passive-aggressive work emails I recieve daily. I'd spend hours reading into the hidden meaning of a snippy email and equally as long crafting a perfectly-worded and ultra-professional, abeit bitingly snide, response. To someone I'd never met. And never would. And who probably didn't give a shit and hated their job as much as I hate mine.

So finally I came up with a radical idea.


FUCK IT.

This new thing I'm doing, this underachievement kick I'm on, has actually resulted in me no longer feeling overwhelmly drawn to only the items in my refrigerator that contain a high alcohol content when I get home from work in the evenings.  


There's only one problem, the guilt. Now, I know I could attribute this southward pointing moral compass to my Catholic upbringing, but I kind of feel like that guilt probably could have been better used in other factions of my life, and it never managed to materialize before, so it's out.


I think my guilt stems from one basic fact, I'm a chronic overacheiver.


To me, everything is about winning. (bahaha C. Sheen is crazy.)  But seriously, I can turn anything into a competition. EVERYTHING. Yes Manfriend, I can move my hand faster than you can move yours when we're side-by-side, brushing our teeth. Oh, hello fellow gym-goer.  Yes, I did in fact casually glance over at your speed on the treadmill to insure that I'm running at a higher speed than you are, you're not just being paranoid. I don't even really like to let my nine year old brother beat me at games. It's sick.

He's just a child!

I'm so good at being efficient and working hard that I don't even really have to think about it, it comes naturally. Listen to me, talking about working hard like it's a good thing. It's a plague, really. For a person as utterly neurotic as myself, constant attention to every. single. detail. is. exhausting.  Manfriend will be lying in bed, ready to start a movie and I'll suddenly have the unsatiatiable desire to start a load of laundry, wipe down every kitchen surface, and scrub the bathtub.

I just have to have things my way. And my way is always the hard way. Usually.

So that why slacking off at work didn't start until age twenty-four for me and it's taken me nearly a year to perfect. I've even worked hard at slacking off. It's gotten to the point that not only do I spend the majority of my day not doing work, but I honestly put more effort in the theatrics of looking productive than it would take to actually switch to completeing a work-related task when my boss walks by.

OF ALL THINGS. OH, THE IRONY.


Sure, I've slacked on things and cut corners in the past, in a broad spectrum of areas in my life. In fact, this winter I went so long between routine shaving that my legs actually transitioned from scratchy to furry. I had furry legs. Gross.

But never at work, until now. I'll even occasionally take almost the last of the coffee and scamper off without brewing a new pot. The ultimate screw you.

For me, there's no point in working hard anymore. Last week I had my one year review sit-down-awkwardly-make-conversation-with-my-cripplingly-socialy-stunted-supervisor. He said verbatim, "I wish I had a couple more like you." And then he apologized for the raise freezes and encouraged me to steal company time. I mean, not 'steal,' but in so many words he told me I could schedule appointments and leave early if I needed to and we'd "work around using my PTO."

BOOYAHHHHHHHH.

I'm still winning, and more importantly, I'm doing it while slacking. And being rewarded for it. I think I'm starting to feel that guilt lifting.


Damn, it feels good to be a gangsta.


XO Sare