The Money Is So Irrelevant

My wife is busy working away in the kitchen.

She’s making dinner (Oh, God…roast chicken. My favorite) AND she’s doing actual work…work.

Yes, she’s working on her own time. I think she’s doing something on Excel or something (I only use Word… if I attempt to use any other MS product I spontaneously combust and/or just don’t do whatever it is somebody has supposedly asked me to do. I work in WORDS people. Not some shitty mathematical universe that let’s people know their work schedules. That’s just stupid.

Anyway, my beautiful wife is working away and it just struck me: I make a LOT more than she does. Oh, I’ve worked the very occasional weekend and late night but what I physically output is NOTHING compared the shit she has to put up with.

I sort of feel guilty.


I sort of don’t care.

After all, I gotta put up with Fat Boy and the advertising ilk that makes my skin crawl.

I’m probably underpaid.

(But not as much as my wife. God help her…)


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