Cheers,
This post contains lethal doses of sarcasm if read irresponsibly.
The clock on the upper-right corner of my MacBook screen ticks closer to 5 PM, but it feels like I’m trapped in purgatorial suspense. It’s the dreaded slog where time elapses toward something but nothing ever progresses. It’s a Thursday and I’m thirsty for a brief reprieve from this hellish nightmare. I can envisage the discount Coronarita hydrating my puckered lips and sluice around my tongue—the nectar of stress release, loosened inhibitions, a ferocious me that has shed the confines of a pleasant 9-to-5 facade.
I pour myself a beer from the tap in my office lobby as a form of liver calisthenics before a mildly wild night. It's 4:35 PM and I lean back in my ergonomic chair. The remaining waning minutes function as a metaphorical QB kneel until I can leave the office with only mild judgment from my more ambitious (i.e. obsequious) coworkers.
A banner flashes in the upper-right corner of my MacBook, an Outlook notification that eclipses the digital clock, almost as a cruel cosmic prank on my stupid and futile white-collar existence.
From accounts:
“Hey there! I talked to the client about their feedback, and they rewrote the original creative brief and want to take the overall campaign in a different direction. But your copy is off to a great start! Is there any chance you could have a revised version by tomorrow morning?”
A tedious, if not intrusive or presumptive ask. This inquiry encapsulates the bizarre relationship between solicitors and services. The tautology: They pay us money, so therefore, they are entitled to every aspect of our lives and labor at all times, no matter how ridiculous the request. Who invented this system? Some bottom-bitch masochist who inserts themselves as the subject of a Reddit roast me because they get off on being told their unibrow looks like a baby carrot?
I choose passive-aggressive chaos:
“Amy! I'm happy to get started on this tomorrow morning. Unfortunately, I don’t get paid overtime and delivery from P.F. Chang’s on the company card isn’t enough to make me wanna stay late. I’ll have it to you EOD tomorrow. Ciao!”
Let hell rain down on this office and burn client expectations.
Stay unbillable. Become ungovernable.
Hallelujah and amen.