So I guess the goal in life is to have full and satisfying challenges to accomplish, with a minimum of time spent on what we could file approximately under “admin” or “chores” or “tiresome bullshit that sucks the joy out of your life”.
I have, what in many ways, is a pretty great job. I get to make a lot of people happy, I interact with great (ok, yes, and imperfect) people on both the client and colleague front. I rarely have to worry about work on the weekends. The not so great parts are things like the early starts and long days, the low pay and the few unreasonable clients that pop up. I understand these drawbacks though; they’re part of the package. It’s all a part of Doing My Job.
When I do have to worry about work on the weekend it’s usually because some fucking pencil pusher somewhere has decided that on top of Doing My Job I should also Do a Bunch of Other Shit.
My education of Microsoft Excel concluded in the 6th form, and was sufficient to make me confident that I can use it to accomplish almost any goal I have, and that my main goal with regard to Microsoft Excel is to avoid having to use it ever at all in my life (except maybe to create pixel art by filling custom size cells with various colours if I am truly, truly bored. And stuck in an office somewhere, I guess. And my cellphone is dead? Hmm. Time to back out of these parentheses before they get too unwieldy).
The main point I’m trying to make here is that yes, grownups have to iron their shirts (callback!) but there comes a point where some other shitbag is trying to make you iron their shirts too and they aren’t being too polite about it and you have to fill in a disclaimer form first (upon which you have to reference your Ironing Practitioner Certification status number and the warrant expiry of your ironing board) and none of it will do you or your life any favours.
I think avoiding that shit is the nearest I will ever come to having any ambition (because I don’t have any really, I’m so easily contented that sometimes the only thing that differentiates me from a sloth is that I actively discourage moss from growing on me).
One day – one fucking day – I will be so rich, so important, or so retired, that I will be able to avoid the bureaucracy and paperwork I don’t actually see as necessary to achieving the few (so few!) goals I might actually be able to cobble together for myself.
In the meantime I will fill out this form from the Wellington City Council and write them a cheque (it is the year of our lord 2013 and people still uses FAXES and CHEQUEBOOKS like fucking ANIMALS) and I will grumble about it now and later and generally be surly for the next 30 minutes or so. Feel free to drop by for a visit. Just make sure you’ve filled out the requisite 352-7/B form first.