I have a job interview tomorrow.

It isn’t for a fancy newspaper writing gig or a copy writing position or anything remotely creative at all. I thought for a long time if I took a new job after graduation it had best be in my field or what the fuck did I go to school for? I thought a non-creative position would be admitting defeat or settling somehow. I opted for a creative degree against my family’s slight discouragment in full confidence that the reason for my post-high school education was not to secure a high-paying job, but to become a rounder, more knowledgeable person. Which I totally did. I wanted to major in something I wanted to do, not something that would get me a climate-controlled SUV and a big screen. My favorite journlism teacher told me that newspaper writing is a calling, not a career. Still, I wanted to write, as I do still today.

The beautiful thing about writing is, no one has to pay you to do it. It totally fucking rules when they do, but I wasn’t getting paid to pen plays in day care, so why should I expect money for it now.

The point is, I’ve finally come to my breaking point. With the service industry that is. When I come home from work I smell like greasy fried onions. It disgusts me. I fucking hate everything about it. I make a lot of money, most of it tax-free, and have a very lax schedule, but every time I pull into that parking lot I want to cry. I am mean to the people I work with. I am bitingly sarcastic and short with my guests if they so much as look at me oddly. Someone asked me the other day what we would be broadcasting on the televisions while I was particularly busy in the servers’ well and I was terribly abrupt. He was surprised and claimed he “was only wondering,” in response to which I gave him the world’s most hollow, non-genuine, exaggerated smile I could manage. In order to express how much I totally loathed him, of course.

I’d say it’s time I get out.

That guy didn’t deserve that. The servers I bitch out on a nightly basis for being totally retarded (no really, they are) don’t deserve that. My managers don’t deserve the utter disrespect that sits brimming just beneath my versed veneer. I can fake a smile in an instant, but lately I cannot hide my underlying contempt. Most importantly, I don’t deserve that. Lots of people bitch about their jobs. My new place of employ might suck out loud. But at least it will suck differently. It won’t be that same janky, broke-ass margarita machine. It won’t be the minimum seven pieces of flair rule.

Yes, it’s finally time for me to go.

I’m confident I am more than qualified for the position I am interviewing for tomorrow, and suspect I’ll be starting a new line of work within one month.

One day soon I will never wear a uniform to work again.