silver lining? my pee is clear.

My job is easy.


Like, if not for fear of electrocution, a beaver could simultaneously build a dam and do my job successfully. OK, I really don't like that analogy either, I'm sorry. A dog. A dog could do my job. Let it be known that I adore the entirety of the canine species, but we don't keep dogs around for their smarts. We keep them around because that tail a-waggin' is such a candid expression of joy that giving them a pat on the head is completely undeniable. Dogs are loyal, and bad ass, albeit dumb.


A dog could easily do my job.


Which is probably why I don't particularly care for the way I keep myself in the black, so to speak.



I loathe my job with the heat and fury of 100000 suns.



However, having a job that requires so very little actual brain power has its perks. Very FEW perks, but still, they exist. Minimally.


For example, despite the fact that my boss seems to get his kicks out of treating the workday like an eight hour criminal lock-down, I get to spend an undue amount of time worrying about things that in my normal, everyday life I wouldn't even really consider, let alone set aside actual moments for. Such as hydration. I can honestly say that I've never been as well-hydrated as I am at this particular, peculiar point in my life. It's almost a compulsion. I fill up two water bottles, I drink them. I go back downstairs to the water-cooler and re-fill them. I drink them. Repeat for eight hours. My piss is clear. It's fucking almost water-clear. It's phenomenal.


Thanks, job. I don't give you enough credit for forcing me to find valid reasons to leave my desk as many times a day as possible. The water distraction is two-fold because it also makes me pee about 23874387 times a day.


Another reason to leave my desk? I'll take it!




Also, I must say that my nails and hands have never been in such great shape. Being that I stare down at my hands the majority of the time that I'm not staring at the computer screen in front of me, I've really taken an interest in putting my best hand forward. I moisturize, A LOT. In fact, I even have to take off my ring to do this task, so it takes a few seconds longer. If I look down at any point in the day and my hands look even the least bit parched, I stop everything I'm doing to attend to lotioning them up. Equally as important, my nails and cuticles. I thought those movies and shows I saw as a child where ladies working at desks are always picking at their nails were just to make them look worthless/trashy/lazy. But really, it's because it's true! I have almost an entire manicure kit in my desk.

I feel at this rate, I could someday be a potential candidate for a hand model in a national commercial. I know, I know, it sounds crazy, but I like to set my sights high.

Finally, I spend OODLES of time staring at the computer. I'm the kind of person that's interested in almost everything... but I'm a bit absentminded, and I take a slightly ADD approach to life. AKA I'm always stumbling upon giant piles of awesome that cause me to go "WOAHHH, man, I gotta read/listen to/buy/see THAT! And then I wander away and can never quite remember where I saw it or heard of it, or what it was called, just that it was rad and I forgot and I'm an idiot. Seriously, a lot of my life is that whole song and dance. HOWEVER, since I'm basically confined to this desk all day, with an UNLIMITED amount of post-it notes and ink pens, I've developed a strategy! It's called writing it down AS SOON AS it happens to strike my fancy, whatever it is that I've discovered. I've got more interests and interesting things to tamper with then I even have time for! Tiny scraps of paper everywhere!

Plus, my cubicle has a window.


I know, you're still jealous about the pee thing.


HYDRATE, fools!

XO Sare

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