I have maintained three rules in my life:
- Never work in fast food
- Never live in Florida
- Never let work become your life
I’ve adhered pretty religiously to these rules over the years.
I worked one night in the hamburger line at Whitetail and even volunteered to clean up afterwards. But I never worked at McDonalds or Hardees or Wendys or anybody else-ys – I’d eat from their dumpsters before I’d deign to take a job in those rotten places.
I’ve never lived in Florida. Still not particularly excited about it – too many old people, too many Mexicans, too many damned people – but it might be fun for a while. And it might be nice to have warm feet all the time. You know, just for a change of pace.
That last, well, that last has been dodgy of late. Something has gone terribly awry when you arrive home with barely sufficient time to eat and fall into bed so you can get up tomorrow to do it all over again. Things have gone wildly off-track when the work week is extended to six days instead of five. There’s decided rotten-ness in Denmark when you can’t plan ahead, can’t take vacations and can’t expect a moments peace any moment of any given day.
Damn my indefatigable sense of good form, loyalty and honour. The reason I’m not a lawyer or a doctor or a teacher is that I never liked the hours, nor the sense of responsibility. I’ve never had to work hard in my life for anything and I will be damned to hell if I’m going to start now.