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Arbeitsalltag im Konsumtempel. Der Typ, der am Fuß der zweiten Empore sitzt, hat den geilsten Job der Welt. Da sitzt er, mit seinen Rastas auf dem Kopf und den Superbass-Kopfhörern auf den Lauscherchen, und retuschiert den ganzen Tag lang Photos.
Ärsche in Strings und Brüste in Unterwäsche. Den ganzen Tag. 9 Stunden lang.
Wann immer ich heute die Treppe runter in den fünften Stock gegangen bin, hatte er nen anderen Arsch oder ein anderes Paar Brüste auf dem Bildschirm (natürlich immer mit entsprechender Verpackung).
Meine Güte. Aber glücklich sah er dabei nicht aus.
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Does a butcher feel like a big juicy steak when he goes home at the end of the day? Is a prostitute always “in the mood”? And does a computer geek like me really still need to be typing away at a keyboard after having spent all of his working day doing the same thing? Lesson: If you love something – truly love it – don’t study it and don’t make it your main source of income.
I had a good friend who was a music journalist in a past life. He got sent about 5-7 new CDs every single day. Couldn’t keep it. They just kept flying through his mailbox. All of a sudden, a switch flipped. This wasn’t music anymore. It was product, product, product. And it never stopped. He couldn’t listen to anything anymore. It was just a commodity; it meant nothing anymore.
Staring at ass and tits all day – after all, one of man’s greatest hobbies (and we do it well) would and should seriously deprive you of some of those basic little pleasures life throws your way from time to time. Even a snaky, stolen glance on the subway would soon become boring.
Like everything It always depends on the angle from where you see something. No matter it is something very precious and important or just the way you earn your daily coffee and bagle with. Or both.
In my opinion the “unlucky expression” upon his face was because he was really concentrated while working. This can be a sign of passion or effort too, don’t you think?
BTW: Thank you for your comment. That was EXACTLY the thought I wanted to cause.
Ah yes, the intense look of concentration, of fixation, of total subordination to the task at hand.
When I was in my teens, my orthodontist would put me in the chair, swing one of those illuminated mirrors over my head, and stare into my mouth. The whole time he would look so scarily intense and also let his tongue hang out of his mouth. Not a pretty sight from down below for a 13-year-old, especially when his breath smelled like week-old tortilla chips.
Still, my teeth are now straight, so who’s complaining?
In my teens when I had to take a seat to that kind of chairs I always put my concentration to the orthodontists bushy eyebrows. That took away the pain and time flew by while waiting for the redeeming “We are done”.
Do all orthodontists need to have a bad breath? Like every gynaecologist has cold fingers? Is that something mentioned in job ads?
When I visit my first, I’ll let you know.