the Third World (of trout)

by Nic Olson

I punched a hole in the wall today at work. But it was a good day.
Long story short, the track of lights did indeed work, and the only adequate way to express my feelings was to punch a hole in the wall. Not fuelled by anger at all, but a sort of confused inarticulate punch. I’ve said all I could say, but I haven’t punched all I could punch.

I work with two guys. Each of them have similar outlooks on life as I do, so you know things can get pretty raw. We have all worked together for literally hundreds of hours and we are at a point where we still usually appreciate each other’s company and can make fun of customers using only eye contact or a shake of the head. But when one of us is off, rattled, negative, or even more sarcastic than usual, then things go to hell.

We talked about work today at work. We were talking with an old coworker, and he told us that he was bored at his cadillac new job, working at the North Face store in Vancouver. He texted us his apparent deadly boredom, while we three sat at the front till, slowly letting the minutes roll until we could go home and live our lives that work we work for. Our lives that work allows us to have. Another friend just emailed me and said that he wanted to quit work, because his boss was a different name for a specific female genitalia. No matter the job, no matter the pay, no matter how hot your coworkers are, work is never worth it.

There is the one in fifty that actually love what they do, and then the other forty-nine that have to make that person’s food, fold that person’s clothes, teach that person’s children, account that person’s money, do that person’s paper work, build that person’s home; only so that he or she have a chance at living life. And then we start to believe that work is only a bummer when it is a job that doesn’t require post-secondary. But even if you have perfect hours, get unreal pay, and somewhat like what you do, work is still work.

So I will move to Montreal, get a job that has absolutely nothing going for it, and wonder how and why I ever left the easiest, most enjoyable, and most relaxed job that ever existed. Then, and only then, will I have a true and pure hate for the idea of working to live, because I’ll be living the real life, and not just scamming off my parents.

I hate work more than anything, but I don’t believe in retirement. So, I guess I’m screwed.

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