Work.

Ah yeah.

That four letter word representing our constant struggle between hate and need. Nobody wants to work and except for the very few freaks that somehow love what they do and are out there lurking and lingering in their offices like potted plants, hiding from home and family and fun, I don’t get it

But, they’re the few; which I thinks a good thing.

The rest of us? Not so much. We do the daily, the weekly, the monthly, constantly tuned to the siren song of the weekend and it’s schools out feeling of wanton freedom and wretched excess.

This post got into my head today and wouldn’t get out, no matter how much Be My Baby replayed  over and over again in my brain, wanting to erase the etching, the tattooing that writing about work had become. Ya know how a song gets stuck? This was plugged in like in-laws at Christmastime.

So.

Instead of tossing it, I scrutinized shit and realized that I don’t really like to work. I mean, at all.

Big surprise, right?

Except that it is. Miss Carol and me have always been borderline workaholics, driven through necessity and need to put the pedal to the metal.

And we did, for centuries and decades. And Miss Carol still does.

But me?

I don’t know. Something happened along the way and I don’t want to bury myself anymore and maybe miss out on the things that make our bleary existence fun and exciting and worth enduring.

And when I try to talk to Miss Carol about it, she mostly agrees with me- all the while shivering and shaking from her Blackberry addiction thats somehow become a focal point in our us.

We’ll work it out I reckon.