Posthuman Blues

Work was frustrating today. The basic situation is this: in theory, overtime isn't mandatory, but -- and here is where it gets Kafkaesque -- there's an implicit threat that I might lose my job if I don't work overtime (ideally, large chunks of my weekend).

The part that makes me the angriest is that the corpses don't -- or more probably can't -- understand the concept of wanting to do something other than work. Frankly, I put in my 40-hour week and I don't want to even think about going back until Monday morning. Yes, I can appreciate that we're understaffed and behind schedule. But is this my fault? Might it conceivably be the fault of the corpses making bad hiring decisions? Oh, but we mustn't entertain such heretical notions.

I had a nice chat with one of the main corpses this morning. He/it demanded to know what I did on my weekends that was so valuable. I really fumbled for words on this one. I don't have to justify my desire for two days' peace out of the week. Even so, I mentioned my contract with Simon & Schuster, to which he/it replied "Well, why don't you do that full-time?" with a leer that made me want to rap his skull against his desk a few times.

For many people, "free time" equates to "watching TV." Faced with the option of staring into a computer screen seven days a week and making a few dollars or listening to the toxic silence of their own minds, they choose the former. For better or worse, I'm plagued by the ability to actually enjoy and cherish my time off, away from work and away from the soulless corporate culture that would have me do nothing but. To the corpses, this is tantamount to a severe mental illness.

I routinely complain that I don't get enough done on my weekends, but I do more than most people: I read, write, correspond with friends, give interviews . . . I think, or at least enjoy pretending I do. To say nothing of cultivating some semblance of a social life, which is neither convenient nor exactly easy for a self-obsessed cyber-yuppie whose immediate interests include extraterrestrial archaeology and reading the complete works of Philip K. Dick.

My livelihood is being threatened, presumably because I'm not a consummate "team player." But I don't recall joining a fucking "team." I remember getting a job -- which I happen to be good at. I've been at my present place of employment for a year. I have broken no rules. Occasionally, I've even been congratulated for doing a good job and told to expect a welcome raise, although this is never forthcoming (or, I must presume, even seriously considered).

Final word: My weekends are mine.