Friday, October 11, 2002


It's after three o'clock on Friday afternoon and I'm officially sick of working. I'm sure most people feel this way every week, but being that this is the first full week I've worked in eight months, I think my system is in shock right now. I cannot fathom how people do this without losing their minds. I don't know, maybe I'm just wired differently. After living free-form for so long, I'm having an extremely difficult time adjusting to having to be in a specific place at a specific time. Luckily, I'm only working as a temp, otherwise I would have already considered quitting. Answering phones in a busy office is down near the very bottom of my list of things I'd like to do for a living. If I had a job like this with no end in sight, I would surely develop a severe case of claustrophobia. Through all the insane hours on inane sitcoms, all the late night rewrites, all the tape nights that went into the wee hours, there was always the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. Whether by cancellation or the end of production, I knew the show would come to an end and I would be free. Granted, most of the time I was hoping the show would be a hit and I could go on hiatus with the knowledge that I had a job to come back to, but that never happened. So as each season came to a close I became eligible to collect unemployment and regroup. Sometimes I would collect for a few months until the early summer when shows were starting up again, and sometimes I would collect until my yearly allotment ran out, like now. This year, I rode the unemployment wave all the way to the shore, but now it's flat and it might be quite awhile before the next set rolls in. Like it or not, I have to work. The thing is, working a full week at the measly rate they pay temps, I'll be lucky to clear what I was making on the newly-raised unemployment maximum. I'm not saying I'd be satisfied and proud of my life if I collected unemployment forever. In all honesty, I don't think I have an aversion to work, per se, just work that seems beneath me. That may sound elitist, but I believe I have a tremendous amount of talent and ability. Taking phone messages, scheduling meetings, and calling messengers feels like more of a waste of time than sititng on my purple velvet couch watching "Pardon the Interruption" or "The Anna Nicole Smith Show." What I have to do is use this experience as motivation to work harder. Write more. Write better. Find other ways to make money. This is of the utmost importance, considering this job could end any second and I still feel like I'm in a CAT scan machine, unable to move a muscle or maneuver in any direction. Trapped.

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