Just a Job

I’ve noticed I’ve spent far too much time blogging, which could probably be attributed to the lack of scintillating work to be done around here.

Write this, copy that. Provide multiple ideas for simple advert content, update website content. And so forth. Hardly the most stimulating of tasks, and not exactly time consuming.

However, whenever I describe this job to someone I know, or have just met, they look at me with the kind of envy not unlike what was seen on the faces of some women when viewing Princess Mary, or some guys who meet Mark Webber, or from someone who has blissfully slipped into the deepest recess of dementia.

Whether it’s because I somehow make it sound much more glamorous than what it actually is, or whether these people have occupations with a thrill factor that rivals counting exactly 150 M&M’s into a packet, I don’t know.

Or perhaps no one ever believes that their job is great, and that it’s just a job.

If that’s the case, I sometimes wonder whether Mark Webber has aspirations to shun the world of motorsport, and forge out in a career of creative flower arranging.


"Left turn. *sigh* How dreary. This corner could use some bright yellow gerberas to spruce it up..."

People also seem to assume that I’m some kind of genius who has studied at university for a lengthy period of time, and passed with flying colours. Again, fallacy. I’m simply someone who has had cards fall in my favour, over and over again, and now am suffering from the Jack-Of-All-Trades syndrome.

Considering my age, I should be earning more money than I currently am - if I was to do that stupid exercise of comparing myself to others of my generation.

To find an occupation that stimulates would be superb, instead of hopping from one project to another. Hopefully I will find it before I finish this damn novel that I’ve been working on for the past six months (on and off, due to conflicting priorities). At least then I can finish the thing, see if it’s worth publishing, get rejected, and then move on with an entertaining occupation.

If I must take a leaf from my mate, the 18 year old barchick at my local, I wish my goal was as simple as, “I wanna own a pub”.

To know that someone 8 years my junior has clear-cut and concise goals is kinda worrying, and that they can sum up their life goals in five words is disturbing. Ask me right now what my goal is, and I would respond with something along the lines of, “not sleep at my desk, and have one day of not entering crap on my blog.”

Another day, another failed goal. And my goal was still more than five words!