Hate your job? Good.

I say that because I currently feel your pain, and it’s nice to know other victims are suffering the same fate.

Generally, I refuse to ever do jobs I hate. I always vowed never to do an office job, never to do a mind-numbing repetitive job and only ones I would look back on and smile. Up to this point, I have stuck to that promise.

Even the paper-shredding job I pursued was at least stress free, and I had the freedom to make videos of my stupid antics as I did it, rather than be stuck in a forced drone mindset.

I hated kids but I wanted to get out there and experience something different, to push myself, and I did exactly that, it turned out I really thoroughly enjoyed it. I did intensive music jobs for no pay, because I love doing it, and I’ve collected glasses in a bar which left me with bruises and hurting muscles every night, deafened ears and a sense of loner-ness, given that I clearly didn’t belong in that crowd.

But now I am at a point of temporary financial despair that makes me feel like I’m about to dive into the real definition of ‘poor’. Poor in that you cannot afford choice. Poor in that you cannot imagine a month from now. Poor in that you have to think about every action you do, every bite you eat.

Ok, the poor thing isn’t actually my issue. I’ve been poor before, and I’ve been very comfortable before. The issues is that I have no choice but to teach 6 hours of classes that I absolutely despite and dread every day up to the moment I’m doing them. Afterwards, I suffer from bruises and aches and mental drainage right up until the point where I start dreading it again.

Well, I’m grateful it’s only 2 days a week, but it’s also on the weekend which takes up any free time I have where anybody else has free time. But the main factor here is, I am just not built to teach young kids. 12 years old? Wonderful. 10? Not bad, I can do it. Adults? Great.

3 years old? What are they even supposed to learn? They can’t physically draw circles, they can barely speak Chinese, let alone English. They cry whenever they see my weird, tall, white structure. They have no interest in what I have to say. They want to play, and play they will.

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Kind of like what Schwarzenegger had to go through, but without the advantage of being able to actually speak to the kids.

The room is designed to be basically a play room with a teacher, and a glass wall for parents to watch and judge accordingly, whilst the kids inside get to be constantly distracted by other kids outside playing and parents waving. Should the parent walk outside or elsehwere, the kids will immediately burst into tears. This means I am expected to get them involved in FUN ACTIVITIESSSS for the duration of the class.

The duration of the class being a solid 2 hours each. I don’t even remember 2 hours worth of my life between the ages of 3 and 8, let alone being taught by some weirdo for that time.

My natural instinct is to tell them to be quiet and sit, but apparently I’m supposed to play and jump around, dance and sing songs. I don’t, I can’t. I won’t.

But, given my situation, I have no choice. I have to do it.

Picture the cliché 20’s scene: a middle aged man comes home, apathetically places his trilby hat on the hat stand, jacket off. Soft, taunting, despaired piano, jazz ballad playing behind him. Sits in his alpha chair and picks up a newspaper in a desperate attempt to hide his face from the world, from being asked ‘how was your day?’, from remembering the fact that tomorrow will come in just 9 more hours.

He fails to shake off the feeling of dread and failure, and turns to his local boozery. The smokier, the better. Dimly lit, he slouches on the stool, double whisky softly bouncing off each palm in slow motion. Trilby hiding his face from the bartender who looks at him pitifully.

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7 more hours, he thinks. Most of that has to go to sleep, and sleep lasts mere seconds. He takes another double.

Before getting totally wasted, however, his responsibility kicks in and he simply has to face the fact that tomorrow is ever coming. He can’t get out of this, he has a family to support. He goes home, Jazz ballad continuing.

Slowly, he gets into bed, 6 hours to go, eyes closed. Wife asleep. Mind awake. He feels the need to keep it awake. If he rests his eyes but remains conscious, time will pass slower but he will still rejuvenate to an extent.

But, to his routine horror and regret, it never works out that way and the next thing he knows, the day he wished would never come is here once again.

That’s me. You can call me The Piano Man. Thank god it’s temporary.

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