The Death Of A Dream

As I stare down the barrel of my new gig, I wax poetically at St. Mark’s Uptown, two beers into the evening, going over existing projects with my soon-to-be former boss:

You killed the pants-free dream for me. I don’t think it was intentional, but then again, my ex-girlfriend’s observation of my inability to display emotion wasn’t expressed to break us up but it broke us up nonetheless. Looming over me everyday was the “option” to throw my laptop in my bag and patronize some outdoor cafe with free WiFi and a young barista with firm breasts to serve me hot caffeinated drinks. Actual times I exercised this “option”: zero. Looming over me everyday was the “option” to delegate work to competent contractors while I enjoyed an afternoon skiing down a powder filled slope or taking a lazy nap on the grass at a local park. Actual times I attempted to delegate work to contractors only to have the project blow up in my face and spend late nights correcting mistakes only amateurs make: too numerous to count. I spent my tenure working sixty hours weeks and cursing at my brand new iMac while my cute wife made muffins and brought me beers in the hopes I would cease yelling, “You filthy bitch!” at poorly coded sites. I was haunted by phone calls from clients whose projects were fucked before I came along and will stay fucked long after I am gone. Lesson learned. I need a place where I can leave incompetent contractors, pissed off clients with unrealistic deadlines and an apathetic boss. That place is called “the office” and not “home.”

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