I was sitting at my desk at work, head tucked neatly behind my enourmous and unnessacerly expensive Apple Cinema display, franticly correcting a color "issue" with a logo in some client's ad, when I had an epiphany.

 It wasn't like one of those life shattering, spiritually surged, fly off the handle and share it with the world epiphanies. No, it was more like feeling of, "EUREKA," a little flash of light, a bulb that's been dimmed many years that's just now finding stregth to leach enough juice from the socket so it can pop on for a second. I came to the realization that my job just isn't that fucking important.

 Now, I understand the need for a steady flow of income, I get it when you say, "How will you pay your bills." I'm thankful for that aspect of work. Actually, I'm not even putting work down. Work is good. Hell, it can be great, but only when you feel like you've somehow accomplished something. I mean, what the hell am I doing that's so damn great at my work?

 Oh, I make sure advertisement prints in the newspaper so all of you assholes can go, "Holy shit! I need to buy more stuff!" I'm a part of that evil culture, an insignificant and rusty cog in the capitalist machine that screams in your face through print advertisement, TV and pop culture.

 "Spend more money! Buy a house and put a lot of crap in it! Get a SUV or two and pump fucking gas like your fucking life fucking depends on it! Spend too much on clothes you won't were a year from now! Listen to our shitty music and go to our movies that you've seen rehashed a million times over! You don't have time to cook yourself a dinner! What the fuck do you think Ronald McDonald is for?! What the hells wrong with you?! Don't you like America?! The terrorists are going to win! You need to spend, brother! Buy! Buy! Buy!"

 So, what did I do in the wake of this profound realization? I saved the file, grabbed the crumbled pack of Camels next to my phone and took a fifteen minute smoke break.

 Yeah, I'm a pussy.