fuck this job.com

I am not this job. This job is not me.

This is a job, not a career. Definitely not MY career.

This job is how I pay my rent. I love my apartment.

This job is how I pay my student loans. I loved being a student.

This job is how I save money for retirement. (I will be able to retire someday. I hope)

This job puts food in our mouths. I keeps us alive.

This job is how we save to take our dream trip to Italy. (In two years.)

This job is something to put on my resume so that I may find a better job where hopefully they will not treat me like a three-year-old. One can hope, anyway.

This job entitles me to a free commute. An oil-free commute.

This job gives me health insurance. (Yes. I'm incredibly lucky and do not take this for granted.)

This job is a rest stop, not my destination. It's not even a memorable rest stop. It's a Bob's Big boy off a minor two-lane interstate.

This is a job that someday will only be an anecdote I share at cocktail parties.