The Art of Being Unemployed

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Words By Francis Hadid.
I grew up with two conflicting messages: ‘do what you love and you’ll never have to work a day in your life’ and ‘working is so bad, you get paid to do it’. And although they both followed me around like a Japanese death god, I feared the latter and vowed to a life of leisure. To me, that meant and still means low expectation academic pursuits and lazy afternoons under the sun. Then, I turned twenty-five and suddenly money, doubt and fear became the dominating theme to my existence. Am I gonna have a cubicle? What if the manager slaps my bum? Are they gonna ask me to sign Sharon’s birthday card? How does one respite when wearing the shackles of employment? I hadn’t yet started the job hunt and was already panicking. ‘Job hunt’ seems like the appropriate term because that’s exactly how it felt. I was a huntress, tip toeing through the forest of jobs, trying to catch a rare, feeble, beady eyed prey. What I didn’t know: it hadn’t been open season for a while; the forest was closed; I wasn’t the only hunter around, and my days of youth retirement were about to begin. I was unemployed.

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