Stop Playing With These Fools
I’m debating cutting back on one day of work per week. Four day work week, instead of five. That gives me an extra twenty four hours of life to live where i’m not indentured to some bullshit that gives me ulcers and boredom. While you fucks are thanking Jahova for Friday, I’ll be one step ahead. Celebrating freedom by delving into another aspect of…whatever. More fun less money.
The five:two work to life ratio isn’t good enough. Four:three isn’t perfect, but it’s better. It could work. I’ll have to eat top ramen a few more times each week, but I think it’s a fair trade off. An eight hour swing each week. That’s thirty two hours a month. Nearly a full goddam weeks vacation, every month.
The more I talk about this, the better it sounds. Multiply that by twelve months… three hundred and eight-four hours a year. Sounds phenomenal. Why wouldn’t I do that? That’s easily four-hundred episodes of whatever the fuck I want. It’s one hundred and ninety-two full length feature films. I could sleep in an extra hour and eight-ish minutes every day for the rest of ever and not miss out on a single thing. The numbers look fantastic.
Why work more than I absolutely have to? Oh, because I’ve still got outstanding school loans which they’ve been sending me letters about my deferment finally coming to a devastating halt? Well, fuck them. They played dirty, tricking an eighteen year old dummy into a crippling, complicated and compounding financial contract. So why can’t I play dirty on the back nine? I’m in it for the long con, baby. Sallie Mae can have hermoney… as soon as she goes through the paperwork of garnishing every last penny from my four day a week check stubs.
I guess you could do the math about how much money I’ll ultimately miss out on due to my new work schedule. But it has never been about money. If we were to compare it to a game like “paper, rock, scissors” — time beats money, every time. I don’t know what beats time… maybe rainbows or bacon or some shit.
I think it’s a good idea. What am I going to do with all the extra money anyway? I’ve got all the shiny shit I want. And all that shit is wipe-off-able. So if it does get dirty, I’ll just wipe it off or fill it up with unleaded and keep it moving. There’s never been a situation, in my memory, that has concluded with, “that was so much fun because I had so much money.”
That’s not how it works. Most mothers won’t advise this strategy. They’ll tell you about 401Ks and retirement. But look at them, they’re still working. Or their retired and bored as shit. Picture yourself working the same amount of hours, the death march forty as I like to call it, for another thirty years. Does that make sense? Now multiplay my 384 by 30. Do the math. Come on brain. 11,520 hours of freedom. Or 480 days of play time. This isn’t hunger games shit, but the odds are forever in my favor. 480 days to figure something out to cover the spread for so called retirement. I think I can get it done.
If all else fails — that’s what government assistance is for. All that shame and pride goes away when your old and your junk stops working. There’s no one else to impress. How many old people do you know who are out killing it? Having fun, not having fun considering their stage of life, but really enjoying life? So why follow that stupid fucking rusted model? Retirement right now. Early installments. One day a week, full AARP.
The truth of the matter is…that extra day won’t be wasted. I’ll be writing. Creating. I’ll be doodling and thinking and shaking off the stink of the old ingrained pattern. This is only the beginning of the new lifestyle. First they try to break you with the five on, two off, plan. If you can bargain them down to a four-three deal, it changes the game. It puts three-four in the sights. Time to start turning the fucking tables around. Stop playing these fools.