The long awaited day has finally come. The day that I’ve been waiting and hoping for. The day that felt like it would never come, like it would never happen, and I would be miserable forever.
I got fired! And fired in the right way, with the severance package and bells and whistles. If I wasn’t so out of shape, or even remotely flexible, I would do a back flip. But I’m not so I won’t because I don’t have health insurance anymore.
I guess most people in my position would probably be upset, worried, tearing their hair out. Unemployment rates are sky high and the maximum weekly unemployment benefit in my state is among the lowest in the nation, at a whopping $275.00. I have terrible credit, a black mark on my record for getting fired and I may be entirely unemployable.
Thank God for that.
My fear of financial ruin was only outweighed by one thing. My intense hatred of my job.
Whenever I used to say that, I would always get the same idiotic response from someone, usually along the lines of “everybody hates their job.”
Why the hell does that make it ok? For some reason, people think that as long as everyone else is miserable, its ok for them to be miserable too. The only goal in mind is the ability to make it to Friday, so they can have a weekend that disappears in the blink of an eye, followed by another week of doing the same thing over and over again. At least well Bill Murray did that in Groundhog Day, he learned a valuable lesson…and how to make an ice sculpture with a chainsaw.
Unless you’re a rich trust fund baby, the majority of your waking hours will be spent working. If you’re miserable when you’re doing that work, then in all honesty, your life is miserable. That’s not ok, and it should never be ok, not even if Bob from accounting is just as miserable.
People don’t die regretting the hours they didn’t put in at their cubicle, so they could bloat some corporate blowhards bank account. They die regretting not following their dreams, not trying for more, and not living like everyday will be their last.
For me, the ten years I would have probably lived after I retired (let’s be honest here, I’m probably not making it much further than 60) weren’t going to be enough. So instead, at 32, I’m starting over.
The way I see it, I’m pretty good at two things. The first one is writing, and the second is snorting lines of Pixie Sticks without sneezing. So if the writing career doesn’t pan out, I have something to fall back on. Awesome.
In all seriousness, I know I’m not always going to get to write what I want. Some days, I’ll be writing boring articles about Social Security Disability and back injuries until my fingers bleed. But at least I won’t wake up dreading everyday anymore. Instead, I’ll push through the boring articles so I can work on my books instead or so I can write angry rants for all my blog followers’ entertainment. Because every word I write makes me a better writer, even if those words are boring as fuck.
And if none of that works out, there’s always Taco Bell. I look pretty in purple.
So, in conclusion, I would like to thank my former employer for firing my ass. It’s probably the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.