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If you practice a petty tyranny of time over me, dayjob (in the person of the head of editing), I will spend those last twenty to forty minutes of the day reading or writing or dancing around listening to music or doing crosswords, because I'm no good for editing any more at that point in the day and I will not report it to you every time I want to slip out a little early. I'm a grownup, I get my work done. I must have a small bit of freedom. I must.
The environment at this job is not particularly supportive or condusive to productivity; the pay is not great; there hasn't been a raise for three years; the state is dull and retro in the worst of ways.
So I will continue to take what bits and scraps of rebellion and freedom I can and I will not stop, because it is ridiculous. I do the work, I do it well, I dress (more or less) appropriately, I come day in, day out. You cannot ask more of me. Or you can, but you will not ever get it.
I thumb my nose at you, petty dull tyranny. I la perruque in your general direction. I will write my novels on your time (and still get my work done and done well). I will write surreal and wonderful stories on your time. I will communicate with my kith and kin. I will tweak your frigid nose and remake your straight jacket on my days as an endlessly changing wardrobe of fanciful frock coats and flying jackets, magic robes and traveling vests, pantaloons and dancing shoes.
I hate you, you know, but I will not let you confine me or break my spirit. And when you do, I will rise again, over and over and over again, stronger, more devious, ever rebellious, and burn your cage to the ground.
The environment at this job is not particularly supportive or condusive to productivity; the pay is not great; there hasn't been a raise for three years; the state is dull and retro in the worst of ways.
So I will continue to take what bits and scraps of rebellion and freedom I can and I will not stop, because it is ridiculous. I do the work, I do it well, I dress (more or less) appropriately, I come day in, day out. You cannot ask more of me. Or you can, but you will not ever get it.
I thumb my nose at you, petty dull tyranny. I la perruque in your general direction. I will write my novels on your time (and still get my work done and done well). I will write surreal and wonderful stories on your time. I will communicate with my kith and kin. I will tweak your frigid nose and remake your straight jacket on my days as an endlessly changing wardrobe of fanciful frock coats and flying jackets, magic robes and traveling vests, pantaloons and dancing shoes.
I hate you, you know, but I will not let you confine me or break my spirit. And when you do, I will rise again, over and over and over again, stronger, more devious, ever rebellious, and burn your cage to the ground.
