there's lots to talk about, but today might want to think about what entitlement means. you know, i know, i of all, people, know, that at twenty-something, if there is one thing you are entitled to it - it is this: nothing.
these are the years of one shitty job after another, and another.
every job i struggle with, i wonder why on earth i am left to surround myself in a place (and it is important to note, that the note of leaving "work as work" as a very difficult task, when it is where you spend 80% of your life), that seems to eat away at my soul. be it in, the tasks at hand, or the people i'm surrounded with, or the, just lack of anything that feels worthy. but it is worthy. because it pays the bills, and slowly, (so, so slowly) but still it does try to add up the savings. the deposit for the future dreams.
i like how i say i can work a shitty job for awhile so i can save up money and afford to do unpaid internships. as if i'll even get unpaid internships.
because we are entitled to nothing.
long story short, i got a second job (and the goal, was for it to be a new full-time gig), that would allow me to leave, the gross, festing, infection that has been my past six-year job. both are dumb, and for part-time students, though the new one sounds arguably more professional than the last. at least for any future writing aspirations.
go read rakoff's, half-empty, and then you will understand why i never, ever write here. but i always, always want to.
anyway. so yeah, there it is. what i've been whining and begging for this whole time, and it's in my hands! a little cubicle, where i can bring a coffee, sit infront of a computer, and do my tasks, where no one bothers me, as long as i do my tasks. and i don't have to talk to anyone that resembles a customer. you know, the apparent dream.
but it's mindless, and my boss is scary, and my eyes hurt, cause all i'm doing is copying and pasting for 7 hours. scratch that, 4 hours. i cut my 7-hour shift to 4-hours, cause i'm genuinely afraid about what i'm gonna do, working at a job i hate, for one more hour.
because i have been paying my dues. i have. for 6 years, while my privileged friends have traveled, and eloped, and i don't know what, i have been slaving away at the shitty job. and no, i'm not the only one. and no it won't last forever, i don't think. which is why someone needs to take this sense of entitlement i have, away from me. it just makes the days that much longer, and the hours that much more dreadful.
no, it is not that bad, but no, i cannot, DO it anymore. haven't i already?? i have. and then there's the harsh reality, where really, i've only just begun. i'm only just graduating, now. in 2 weeks. what do you mean, i've paid my dues. another seven more to go, if not more.
none of you will take this seriously, nor should you. because i'm complaining about sitting in a room for 4 hours, copying and pasting. i'm complaining.
because other people don't have to work this hard, and even more people have to work even harder.
how dare i be upset that i have to spend 4 hours in a room looking at a screen? my mother and father spend 8 hours a day doing something they have 0 passion for, and don't even have the luxury of spending their (minimal) extra time with their friends, smoking j's, eating out, and just shooting the shit. and they really have no choice. it is fucking gloriously amazing that they have mastered the necessary skills from their, less-educated, non-technological, immigrant, non-english speaking background, to develop into fluent english-speaking, almost fluent bilingual-speaking, computer using, workers. and they don't fucking spend an entire blog post whining about it. and it is not their dreams. but that is not the point. they love their home, and they feed themselves and their daughter, whom they also love. and only once in awhile does my mother sigh, sit down, and say, "i wish i could travel more." and the sigh is heavy, and meaningful, and oh, how she painfully means it - but it is only once in awhile that she even gives that moment of self-pity to herself.
have you forgotten, sruti? calcutta, that early morning. you catch dad staring, peering through the window, and you fumble over, in your mid-sleep, and say, "what are you looking at?" and you see. that is early morning, and a group of 20+ people are huddled around a puddle in the middle of the street, using any old pail to bathe themselves in. they are naked, and huddled around each other, shivering. my father says, "look. look at how other people live." and there, in a quick flash, my father shuts the blind, and says, "let's go. they deserve their privacy."
what? am i not supposed to think about poverty when i complain about my developed world? because there's nothing i can do about that right, and i have every right to complain about shitty things, because they are just that, shitty. i know. my reality is a reality, too.
but i'm going to go take a hot shower now, before my shitty shift at my shitty job.
these are the years of one shitty job after another, and another.
every job i struggle with, i wonder why on earth i am left to surround myself in a place (and it is important to note, that the note of leaving "work as work" as a very difficult task, when it is where you spend 80% of your life), that seems to eat away at my soul. be it in, the tasks at hand, or the people i'm surrounded with, or the, just lack of anything that feels worthy. but it is worthy. because it pays the bills, and slowly, (so, so slowly) but still it does try to add up the savings. the deposit for the future dreams.
i like how i say i can work a shitty job for awhile so i can save up money and afford to do unpaid internships. as if i'll even get unpaid internships.
because we are entitled to nothing.
long story short, i got a second job (and the goal, was for it to be a new full-time gig), that would allow me to leave, the gross, festing, infection that has been my past six-year job. both are dumb, and for part-time students, though the new one sounds arguably more professional than the last. at least for any future writing aspirations.
go read rakoff's, half-empty, and then you will understand why i never, ever write here. but i always, always want to.
anyway. so yeah, there it is. what i've been whining and begging for this whole time, and it's in my hands! a little cubicle, where i can bring a coffee, sit infront of a computer, and do my tasks, where no one bothers me, as long as i do my tasks. and i don't have to talk to anyone that resembles a customer. you know, the apparent dream.
but it's mindless, and my boss is scary, and my eyes hurt, cause all i'm doing is copying and pasting for 7 hours. scratch that, 4 hours. i cut my 7-hour shift to 4-hours, cause i'm genuinely afraid about what i'm gonna do, working at a job i hate, for one more hour.
because i have been paying my dues. i have. for 6 years, while my privileged friends have traveled, and eloped, and i don't know what, i have been slaving away at the shitty job. and no, i'm not the only one. and no it won't last forever, i don't think. which is why someone needs to take this sense of entitlement i have, away from me. it just makes the days that much longer, and the hours that much more dreadful.
no, it is not that bad, but no, i cannot, DO it anymore. haven't i already?? i have. and then there's the harsh reality, where really, i've only just begun. i'm only just graduating, now. in 2 weeks. what do you mean, i've paid my dues. another seven more to go, if not more.
none of you will take this seriously, nor should you. because i'm complaining about sitting in a room for 4 hours, copying and pasting. i'm complaining.
because other people don't have to work this hard, and even more people have to work even harder.
how dare i be upset that i have to spend 4 hours in a room looking at a screen? my mother and father spend 8 hours a day doing something they have 0 passion for, and don't even have the luxury of spending their (minimal) extra time with their friends, smoking j's, eating out, and just shooting the shit. and they really have no choice. it is fucking gloriously amazing that they have mastered the necessary skills from their, less-educated, non-technological, immigrant, non-english speaking background, to develop into fluent english-speaking, almost fluent bilingual-speaking, computer using, workers. and they don't fucking spend an entire blog post whining about it. and it is not their dreams. but that is not the point. they love their home, and they feed themselves and their daughter, whom they also love. and only once in awhile does my mother sigh, sit down, and say, "i wish i could travel more." and the sigh is heavy, and meaningful, and oh, how she painfully means it - but it is only once in awhile that she even gives that moment of self-pity to herself.
have you forgotten, sruti? calcutta, that early morning. you catch dad staring, peering through the window, and you fumble over, in your mid-sleep, and say, "what are you looking at?" and you see. that is early morning, and a group of 20+ people are huddled around a puddle in the middle of the street, using any old pail to bathe themselves in. they are naked, and huddled around each other, shivering. my father says, "look. look at how other people live." and there, in a quick flash, my father shuts the blind, and says, "let's go. they deserve their privacy."
what? am i not supposed to think about poverty when i complain about my developed world? because there's nothing i can do about that right, and i have every right to complain about shitty things, because they are just that, shitty. i know. my reality is a reality, too.
but i'm going to go take a hot shower now, before my shitty shift at my shitty job.
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