An Amnesia of Sorts
I am a recovering workaholic.
Everyone has their vices. Mine was working too much. Work is an all-American vice. Working yourself to death is essentially the American pastime. Every citizen needs a strong work ethic, because productivity is the metric by which we measure our worth as individuals in this our industrious post-industrial nation. It’s sacrilege to suggest that perhaps we’re all working too much and downright treasonous to ask for whose benefit we are toiling away in this capitalist utopia.
There’s not much I can do about the system being insane. It’s the system. No one really likes the system, except perhaps those at the top making the rules for everyone else at the bottom. Nonetheless, you can’t question the system. That would be socialist, and socialism is the gateway drug which leads into communism, cowardice, and possibly something to do with Benghazi.
However, I’ve got the working non-stop thing pretty well licked at this point. I get to the office somewhere between 8:00 and 9:30. Once there, I put in a full day’s worth of earnest productivity. I honestly do try to give my best effort every single day. Then I head home between 4:30 and 5:30. But after that I’m at a loss. Weekends are dreadful. I’ve kind of forgotten how to have fun. I expect that will return in time. Probably.