The Proper Way to Hate a Job

After 12 hours of restless sleep, wake to the voices in your head listing off possible diseases you could claim to have caught while sleeping, all of which would prevent you from operating heavy machinery or a mouse.

Decide that it would sound peculiar to call in crazy to work and proceed to the toilet where you relieve yourself of the two gallons of water you pounded the night before in hopes of drowning the pain.

While still dressed in the shirt and jeans you wore yesterday but were too tired to take off before you passed out to some woodworking show starring an overweight man dressed entirely in denim, make a cup of coffee the consistency of spackle and potency of a nuclear reactor.

Exercise your right not to shower, as practicing basic hygiene only makes their lives easier. You will look presentable when you want to look presentable, and today just isn’t one of those days. Today is, however, the day the company’s primary investor will be taking a tour of the new office. Think to yourself what a coincidence this is.

Arrive an hour late to work singing “Smack My Bitch Up,” because that’s what you were listening to at full volume the entire commute, over and over again. Look straight at your boss as you pass her desk and say, “Smack my motherfucking bitch up.”

Ignore the inane string of email from the Vice President of Spin to the Vice President of Enabling His Fist Up Your Ass, cc’d to everyone in the company because, really, what’s a cock fight without an audience? Instant message the only other cool person in the office — the only other person who’s not wearing a belt that matches his shoes — to tell him that Her Wretchedness is once again ordering Prada shoes online and talking about it out loud.

Take a two-hour lunch: one hour for the bean burrito, one hour for the nap in the front seat of your car.

For the rest of the afternoon conduct seemingly academic experiments with bandwidth by seeing how many simultaneous downloads of “Get Ur Freak On” your CPU can handle. End your experiments when you reach 82 or when the company’s network administrator spontaneously explodes.

After successfully avoiding any work related to your actual job, sneak out the back entrance and head home an hour early. Roll down the windows and scream louder than the roar of your engine. Continue screaming the whole way home taking breaths only at stoplights. You should be sufficiently hyperventilating by the time you pass Fairfax and that guy who’s always selling oranges.

Find a parking spot within at least a mile of your apartment, preferably in a quiet Jewish neighborhood. Shut the car off and bang your forehead on the steering wheel. Aim for the horn.