He approaches me with an eye for malice.

CHEECH: “What are you in for? I’m going to dominate your ass”

ME: “I have a pretty long rap sheet boss - you do not want to mess with me, ’cause I will fuck you up. But, if you must know, I’m in for getting a college and master’s degree, buying a house, buying two cars, paying $40,000 for successful In-Vitro fertilization, buying thousands of toys, supporting a stay at home mom who tries to convince me that my real name is “Asshole” and pushes the envelope when it comes to using up my credit, and other minor financial infractions, like running an online business in order to pay-off revolving debt that would make your rubbery lips curl.”

With that, Cheech walks away, there will be no “domination” attempt today, the “debt talk” frightens him and he knows I’m Bad Ass. Though, I’m sure I’ll get into another “no-holds” barred wrestling match later, as I have on many past occasions with this ruffian.

Cheech what a nice boy…actually, he’s more like a big, happy, muscle…he’s my three year old Boxer dog, sometimes referred to as my “brother”, and no, he doesn’t talk - although, I do think he tries to, on those occasions when he attempts to “dominate” me…there’s nothing quite like waking up in the morning with a dog standing over you, testicles, hanging in the wind. In reality, Cheech is not exactly mine…he’s my parents’ dog, so, yes, I am living with my parents now…in their English basement…”my” English basement. But, the English basement and my dungeon living is a whole other story, another chapter in my absurd existence. So, let’s get back to the topic of work.

It makes me a little angry when I think about how long I’ve worked at the same job (ten years) and how I have spent more time with my colleagues than with my own kids…WTF is up with that? Who decided to make the 40 hour workweek a standard anyway? Why not 20 hours? Why not 10? Now that I think about it, I only get about 5 hours worth of work done anyway (many times less) and spend the rest of the time doing other “stuff” (exhibit A: this blog) and feeling extremely guilty doing so in the process - okay, maybe not that guilty, actually, not guilty at all, just frustrated.

Shit, it almost makes more sense to marry a colleague and have your kids work at the office - one happy family. How frustrating, when I think of all of the productive things I could be doing with my time instead…playing with my kids, going to a museum with my girlfriend, playing a tennis match, working on my online business, sleeping or catching up on some movie classics or painting that masterpiece I’ve had in the back of my mind for the last two years…so much to do, so little time.

So, each morning I approach the 40 Hour Labor Camp as if planning a jail break from a penal colony. I will do my time, follow the rules, I will obey the warden (who is working from home today, incidentally) drink the hot piss they call coffee and eat the shitty grub from the cafeteria, while setting into place my grand escape plan…ten online business and I’m free. So, far, I have created one…got to stay focused.