My first kill…aka contract

While I slave away most of my life in my depressing existence known as a job, in my free time, I’m in the process of starting a business, because working for someone else sucks and I’d rather put my time and effort into something of my own.

Do I think that makes me special? Do I think I’m better than you?


This business is based on commissioned projects, and last week, I landed my first one.

When the signed contract came back to me, I was very happy, ecstatic really. I felt like a fucking wild animal that had just made a kill.

I developed the tools and skills I needed to lure in the prey, I hunted down a lead, and when I got the chance, I jumped on it and sold myself until the client could no longer resist my offer.

I felt pumped and alive and like I was actually doing something with my life.

It was very different than the feeling I get when I’m assigned my next, monotonous, boring, impossible-to-give-a-shit-about task at work. That feeling would best be described as meaningless and dead inside.

Or like an animal that’s meant to be free in the wild, but is being held in captivity.

The cubicle is my cage. I long to escape, desperately making futile attempts to scale the menacing beige walls of confinement.

The paycheck is my food. It regularly manifests in my checking account, with little to nothing required by me, but to simply show up and exist for hours upon hours. And maybe type a few numbers or something.

The boss is my trainer. He punishes me when I act upon my primal instincts. He rewards me with my paycheck when I obey his rules.

I dream of freedom, but I have none. I have the drive in me, but I can’t use it here. The depression sinks in, I’m inconsolable. I have nowhere to run, nothing to keep me going. Except free, shitty coffee in the break room.

Such a pitiable position.

As I medicate myself with ridiculously large doses of caffeine, I find myself unconsciously staring through the window at the vast expanse of liberty that lies beyond. The warm sun, open air, green grass, starbucks.

Such wonder.

Deep down, I know I have what it takes to escape this imprisonment. I know this job is not the only way. I know I possess the innate ability to make it on my own! To find food, earn income, build shelter, acquire free Wi-Fi.

Such grandiose dreams!

Yet I do not act.

I make no attempt to realize the dream. Instead, I sulk. I sulk, I irrationally blame the stupid, shitty coffee machine, kick it, and drag myself back to my cushioned office chair.


Why do I continue living this lie? This is not me. I am a peacock! You gotta let me fly! Why do I continue to let some company run my life? They cannot tame me!

Yet they have. And it is I who have let them.

But now I realize what has happened, and that I must make a change.

And so, I sit. In that cushy office chair, plotting my escape. I pull up 7 windows of different shapes and sizes on my computer screen to appear busy, while on my phone, I’m designing my website, advertising my business, emailing potential clients, quietly stalking a future of living my own life, on my own terms.

The time is drawing near. Soon, I’ll maul my boss’s ego with my words. I’ll make my escape. Society will chase me down, telling me I’m foolish and irresponsible, that I should just go back to my cage where it’s “safe”.

Fuck safe.

Safe is boring, uninteresting, and forgettable.

I’m tryin’ to live dangerously, son.

No Comments, Be The First!

Your email address will not be published.