Monday, October 31, 2005
If my lifestyle did not necessitate that I work, I would have all the time in the world to devote to a better lifestyle- one that would not involve working. It would instead involve much sleeping, reading, and possible piano-playing. I might also coordinate a movie or two into my new weekly schedule.
Books- those unread of which I possess in daunting quantity- would in my fantasy no-work world be read promptly. I would comprehend the text, quote passages from memory, and integrate them into subsequent class assignments, papers, and research.
If I did not have to work, I would be able to study Greek, German, and Latin more thoroughly, instead of memorizing a principal part here, an irregular nominative form there, five of the dozens of uses for the Latin subjunctive... I would also have the time to pick up Japanese again, as a side project, for I have an audio disk and my community college textbooks as beginning references. I would become fluent in German and Japanese, with reading knowledge of Latin and Greek. I would inform everyone of this, and everyone would be amazed, and I would be offered millions of dollars a year to say remarkable things in German and Japanese and to write brilliant things in Greek and Latin.
The frequency with which my face breaks out in ghastly red zits would substantially be reduced, if I did not have to serve people fried food five nights a week. My face would return to its natural, pasty complexion. Paranthetically, the bags under my eyes would also disappear. People paying for their chicken strips and fries sometimes remark that I look a bit peaked (most use "tired"). I look pooped because I work about thirty-six hours a week. Hilariously, if I had no classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I would probably work more.
My writing would improve if I had more time to write. I would not have to write without contractions and I would not have to write in a voice as monotonous as my real voice to cover up the fact that I cannot write smoothly anymore, if I did not have to work.
I hate my job. I hate my life. I hate the spoiled little brats who come into the place where I work and believe the university pays me six dollars an hour to put up with their crap.
I return from break in five minutes.
[Lauree Frances Keith concluded this diatribe at 7:17 PM]