I Hate My Job

I hate Mondays.

It’s 6:27. My alarm will be going off in 3 minutes. I don’t even know why I still have it plugged in. My body has automatically programmed itself to wake up at the same time every day. I’m awake just minutes before my alarm. Even on weekends. Those are the worst. Have you ever been up at 6:30 on a Saturday? It used to be fun. I’m 37 now. Recess just doesn’t have the same affect on me anymore. And the only cereal I have is Cheerios. Stale Cheerios. With no sugar.

Each bloodcurdling pulse of dissonance from my alarm reminds me of what I have to look forward to: nothing. At least I have coffee. It’s the only thing that keeps me going. Not sure if I even care if there’s no sugar. I have some creamer my Mom brought me last time she visited. She comes by every now and then. I think she’s worried about my mental health. She brings little gifts every now and then. Mostly office supplies. Pens. Pencils. Paper. Pads. Planners. Post-its. I think she’s worried about my mental health. She tells me I don’t smile or make jokes anymore. I wish she would bring food. I’ve been living off ramen and Kraft Easy Mac for the past two years. Ever since I started my job there.

ZeldaInformer—the source for all your Spirit Tracks news, previews, and discussion.

I hate that place.

I used to love Zelda. I didn’t care if I was over thirty and still playing a kid’s game. Then Zelda became my job. What once was a leisure activity was now work. I used to love writing. This job killed that, too. I used to put my soul into my writing. I used to try to engage readers. I used to challenge my own writing ability. I used to use semi-colons. But what’s the point? Semi-colons are for assholes.

I called a cab as I smoked a cigarette. I didn’t have a car. This job doesn’t pay enough to cover insurance. It’s barely enough to cover rent and smokes every month. Stupid habit. I picked it up from my boss. Nathanial Rumphol-Janc. Biggest asshole I’ve ever met. Even his name is annoying. I still don’t know how to pronounce that shit. He’s like that guy from that one office movie. Except more of an asshole. I’m the best writer on the entire site and he gives me the worst stories. “Write something about this Australian gaming website’s top 300 list of the best video games of all-time.” “Hey, Tingle News Guy! Post the new trailer and write something about it! And make it cute! You know, with that little style you have—all zany and stuff. Nathanial, Nathanial Koolah-Limpah!” “Do you think you could write a little piece about this Chicken McNugget shaped like an Ocarina?” “Oh, and you know what would be great? I just posted this article, and I’m kind of drunk right now, so there’s probably some errors in it. If you could give it a look that’d be great.”

I hate Nathanial Rumphol-Janc. I hate ZeldaInformer.

The cab driver told me I couldn’t smoke in the cab. You can’t smoke anywhere anymore. I looked out the window. Every morning I pass the same goddamn building. The offices of Zelda Universe. What a shitty place that is. If there’s one place I hate more than ZeldaInformer, it’s Zelda Universe. They’re trying so hard to be relevant. It’s disgusting. Assholes were still drinking Crystal Pepsi the last time anyone cared about them. They started filling their site up with ads so they could build a Ferris wheel next door. I hope one of the kids falls off the top so their entire corporation is shut down.

I light up another square after arriving at the building. I’m supposed to be there at 7:00. The rest of the staff comes in at 9:00. I have to go over the entire day’s activities with the boss. It’s 7:14. I don’t care anymore.

7:38. He’s waiting at my cubicle.

“Where were you?”

“I got a blueberry muffin.”

“Where’s mine?”

I wondered how many years I’d get if convicted of poisoning his coffee with printer ink.

“So, today should be another busy day, eh? Probably going to be a lot of new Spirit Tracks foot—”

He was still talking. I think. I knew his mouth was moving. All I could think about was how pathetic this guy is. He’s the oldest asshole in the entire Zelda community. But he wasn’t one of those cool old people. He was an asshole going through some tragic mid-life crisis. He wore a size-too-small pair of Levi’s on casual Friday. With Adidas. Except they weren’t Adidas. They had four stripes. They weren’t K-Swiss either. He was a line away from being cool.

“If you could have Ben’s article cleaned up before lunch, that’d be fantastic.”

Ben Lamoreux. I don’t know how to say his name either. Total asshole. I’ll never know why we have so many unpronounceable Frenchman working for the site. And I don’t care if Frenchman isn’t the preferred nomenclature.

He was the worst of all the staff members. He wore a Brett Favre jersey every Friday. I hate Brett Favre. That asshole should just retire. He was always talking about how exciting it was to watch him play. Interceptions are mistakes. Mistakes are stupid. Football is stupid. I wonder how a lobotomy patient got hired to work for such a prestigious organization.

All of the other peasants looked up to him for some reason. Never figured that out. Never will. Maybe they thought he was a good writer. I’m better. Maybe because he’s “won” employee of the month dozens of times. This isn’t Spongebob. Maybe he’s just an all around good guy. He’s an asshole. I don’t even know why people work for us. Other companies would pay better. We’re not even popular.

I don’t know what happened for most of the day. I zoned out. It might be a side affect of the Prozac. It might be because Marla or Michelle or Maria or whatever her name was wore a low-cut top that day. It might be my brain protecting me from the endless monotony inherent to a job like this. I don’t care. I remember Ben going to the printer and saying “I swear, if this thing gives me a PC load letter message, I’ll go grab my Lousiville slugger!” Office Space is a stupid movie. You want to know what working in an office is really like? Put yourself in a cardboard box. Close your eyes. Then pretend you’re at a U2 concert. And everyone is Bono.

At one point he asked if he could use my stapler. I gave it to him. There weren’t any staples in it.

Lunch was miserable. It’s always miserable. The staff pours into the boardroom and psychotically babbles about the insignificant dribble you could imagine. Why men cheat. Why women cheat. Tiger Woods. Things they love. Google Wave. Christmas. These are grown men with no girlfriends. No wives. No Children. They still pretend they’re kids so they don’t hate themselves for who they are and what they do. Today’s topic of conversation reached a new level of stupidity. Phil Stenson or whatever his name is was talking about Majora’s Mask. It’s the best game ever in his opinion. In my opinion. I hate that phrase. Some people don’t deserve opinions. Stenson was one of them. Majora’s Mask is a stupid game. It’s an amnesiac Ocarina of Time with a Disneyland story and monotonous dungeons. He kept talking about how mysterious the game is. The only mystery here is why this asshole doesn’t get fired.

I wish I would get fired. I wish I could quit. I’ve put too much time and effort into this site. It’d die without me. I’d die without it. The pills don’t help. The drinking doesn’t help. Nothing helps. This job is hell. Life is hell. My Mom tells me I could be unemployed. I could be living at home still. I could be working for Zelda Universe.

It’s 8:00. Monday is over. I’m not sure how I make it through this job every day. I hit the last cig of the day after getting off the bus. Law & Order is on. I hate Law & Order. I hate ZeldaInformer.

And I hate Tuesdays.