6:54 p.m.

it could be worse

Today, as I was cleaning up bile acid with chunks of undigested chocolate (wrappers included), I thought: Damn. I hate my job.

I have been urinated on, defecated on, vomited on, and bitten today; all by the same dog.

It made me think.

About how I donít need this job. About how I donít get paid nearly what Iím worth. How I take everyoneís constant condescension. I thought about how I listen to clients tell me, not only about their current personal problems, but that Iím an inept idiot and Iím purposely trying to add to their problems by charging them for services rendered.

And then, it hit me.

I am one of the select few people on this planet that can honestly say I donít hate my job. Sure, there are days when Iíd rather stay at home - days when Iím just going through the motions. And days, like today for example, where I wouldnít be opposed to an excruciatingly painful death if only it would end the workday. (Although, that could be chalked up to PMS.) But overall, Iím not unhappy with my job.

I could be working as a cashier, a telemarketer, a tour guide, a janitor, or any other menial position reserved for the ďuneducatedĒ. My life could be a lot worse. I know this because Iíve done all of those jobs.

At least I enjoy this job 89% of the time.

So, when you go to work tomorrow, or Monday, and you think: I hate this job. That you canít take another second in your office, and you have this voracious urge to flee, take a second and reflect. It could be worse.

You could be cleaning up vomit with your one good hand, soaking wet with urine, smelling of anal glands, all while on the phone setting an appointment with a client whose screaming kids are in the background. On a Saturday.

Now, Iím freshly showered and headed back for round two.

See, your life isnít so bad.

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