Did I say . . . ? No, I see that I haven’t. Or at least, skimming over this doesn’t turn it up, so.
I’ve been working 50 or 60 hour weeks most of the time since about last October. Sometimes more. I mean, even with farting around, I’ve still been working 40 hours on work, pretty much. This last weekend is the first one I can remember for sure this year that I haven’t worked.
And you know what? I’m not doing this crap anymore. 40 hours a week. That’s what I’m getting paid for. If I got overtime, or even comp time, ok, that’d be fine, but dude, I’ve got like weeks of vacation built up if I got comp time — except I don’t.
So that’s enough. That’s enough of this crap. 40 hours a week, that’s me. If it doesn’t get done, I’m obviously overscheduled and either I need to give somebody more to do or somebody needs to give me less to do.
There’s a certain freedom in this mental state. Or maybe that’s just the amazingly bad headache I have right now.
I’m gonna go swim tonight. I may even stop by the women’s gym on Northern Lights to see how much their initiation fee is, just because UAA’s gym is so wretchedly bad. I’m going to come home and I’m going to do my art class homework and I’m going to do some writing.
And I’m not goddamned going to work.