I hate my job. I hate my whole professional life. When you are a kid, you never imagine your working life will be this way. All you want is to be treated like an adult, "I'm not a kid", never realizing that being an adult sucks. It is like being kicked in the crotch and having your nipples yanked and twisted, all simultaneously as you writhe in pain. Not only do you enter into the business world and realize how lowly you are in the food chain (at this depth, can you even remember what sunlight looks like?), but you are thrown into a plethora of troubles including-but not limited to- money, relationship, family, and personal and professional problems. Oh boy, where can I sign up? Looking back a bunch of years, it is almost as if I can hear the low voice of the devil saying "Welcome to your new crapastic life Laura" as I recieved my University degree and walked off the stage. In fact, when the Dean of the Faculty of Arts said "Where are you headed to next?", instead of answering "Michael Buble" like I did, I should have simply said "Hell". HELL. Followed by what is beneath Hell, and then even lower than that.

I hate my whole professional life. Prior to working, I spent a good 21 years suffering from crippling doubt, insecurities, fears, and depression. No doubt this was a direct result of living with two immigrant Chinese parents who transferred their own failed dreams onto the already heavy shoulders of their children. Now, feet firmly planted in the working world, I still suffer from crippling doubt, insecurities, fears, and depression. I worry that I am a boiled frog. I am insecure about my ideas and my creativity and my ability to succeed. I am conditioned in my position to get each idea or task approved by those higher in rank than me, no matter how minute the task, but am chastised and brushed off like a lint mite as being bothersome when I attempt to get ideas and tasks signed off as I have been instructed to do. But god forbid I go ahead and do anything without approval or else the high Führer (AKA The Director) will give my backside a good whipping. What am I to do? I am told that I have to get everything signed off, but when I try to, I am treated as a bug who is a major annoyance because I can’t do anything without running into the big office. I am told to speak loud and proud about my ideas but they are rebuffed and turned down before I am even done speaking about them.

Say it with me now: HELL, HELL, AND THEN MORE HELL.