It's 11 a.m. on a Friday. Technically I've been at work for about two hours, but the closest thing I've done that resembles work is delete emails that I don't want to read. I've pissed twice, read two newspapers, drunk three cups of water, eaten a heaping bowl of oatmeal, and checked to see the weather for the weekend. I don't really have much to complain about, but I'm going to do it anyway.

I hate my job. I despised it before I had it. Even so, I'm sick to say that I'm glad to have something that puts a roof over my head, food in my mouth, and booze up my nose.

Now, during my workday at my career (Judas priest that sounds depressing) I'm supposed to follow all the action about commercial real estate. So basically I write and read about the buying and selling of office buildings, which is twice as boring as you think. I have to know about REBNY, REITs, per sf, CMBS and liquidity.

I don't claim to even come close to understanding (let alone loving) the stock market like DeGraaf. I've never taken a finance or business class, and it shows.

For many years, I've been editing (yelling at underlings) and writing (pretending I know shit), but I'm at the point where I'm almost out of breath from screaming, and almost out of bullshit.

I know there is a better life out there.

You see, I used to work in a bar in a college town. Basically, they paid me to drink, hang out, make jokes, beat the crap out of losers, and hit on chicks.

Slinging drinks comfortably put me through my undergrad days as well as grad school. Granted, I should have spent more time kissing ass in the journalism world than I did watching tail at the bar-jobs and women come and go, and I hate waking up for both, but a man has to have priorities. Any asshat can get a job if he really wants to. Not true about ladies. Well, any shitbox can get lucky and find a girl too.

Picking up girls while you're bartending at an NCAA Division I school isn't like shooting fish in a barrel. It's more comparable to having a flea-bitten drunk fish follow you to your front door, lay down in your bed and beg to be blasted.

Plus, working while you're drunk in an office sucks. People look at you funny. Nobody wants to be around you. Your coworkers would give you an intervention if they cared enough to learn your name. You get in "trouble" from management. It's not a good deal.

But working in a bar, being shitfaced is almost a requirement. Homeless Pete, Kristen Big Boobs, Old Boy Roy and Dildo For Brains all want to buy you shots. Why? You're working, and they think work should be rewarded with whiskey. Ah, if only the corporate monkeys had the same attitude.

Boss: Steven (this dickhead will never learn my name), sucks to be sitting in front a computer, huh?

Kc: Yeah. But that's why I make the very mediocre bucks.

Boss: Fuck that. Work sucks. Let's go take some boilermakers.

Kc: Awesome. While we're there, can I call you "Dad"?

Plus, there's the psychological conditioning. At my real job, my check is deposited in my bank every two weeks. I never see a heaping pile of money, so my pay is almost invisible. Every time I go to work all I get is pissed off and bed sores.

However, at the bar, every night you work, you come home with a stack of cash (maybe a chick, a buzz and a swiped bottle of Jameson as well). So every time you stroll into the bar, you end up with a special treat.

You know what special treats I get at the office? None. You make your own. You steal enough paper clips to build a ninja sword. You get a free breakfast once in a great while. You stick your cubicle mate's pens in your buttcrack because you know he puts them in his mouth and you want him to get diphtheria.

Offices are boring. No music, no dancing, no singing and no cool shit to watch. I've been here six months and I haven't seen a single body shot, fist fight, Girls Gone Wild boob flashing or spontaneous vomiting.

In the back alley behind my bar, I saw a cop Taser two guys at once. On the 17th floor, somebody thinks she saw a mouse. Once.

Sure having steady paychecks, health insurance, business cards and fancy ties are nice. But showing up each day makes you feel like shit.

Making money while drinking, flirting, stealing and fucking around is awesome.

But, the sad honest truth is, I learned to hate the bar job too.

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