I recently got a new job after being on the hunt for a little over a year. Damn you, flaccid economy!  It was a long process, all told, spanning eighteen interviews, countless reassessments of the happiness/salary/workplace correlation, and two very brief moments in history where I considered jobs I have historically deemed unsavory: retail and clowning. It was a long exhausting process that has, for now, come to an end.

This process is not a foreign one. Having recently entered my 30s, I have watched several friends in various age brackets wade through the troughs of gainful employment. I myself have held far too many jobs in what most HR professionals  would surely deem far too short a time span. There are many reasons for my fickle CV —new opportunities, new locations—but mostly the good old realization that I just don’t like what I do.  And I am not alone. The majority of people I know legitimately hate their jobs, resent their schedules and mutter curse-laden voodoo spells under their breath whenever their boss’s names are mentioned. They dream of breaking out, telling people off and fucking people over. Resignation becomes a semi-religious term; two-weeks’ notice the epicenter of the canon of the disgruntled.

We who hate our jobs are not a passive bunch by nature, with our manic dreams of freedom and machete-wielding revenge (metaphorical of course, Rambo), but we become passive and pliant on the surface, usually while silently plotting our escape, and usually after our spirits have been broken.

Yo. Wanna Hire Me?

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