It’s so unfortunate that we can’t be compensated for the things we’re good at and that we love: like hating. It’s not a skill everyone has, the ability to constantly allow venom to course through her veins like so much lifeblood. But some people have the stamina for it, or what others might call a lack of anything or anyone else going on. “Why don’t you take up a hobby?” “Why don’t you just move on?,” such cliche suggestions are proffered. “Why doesn’t everyone else see the way in which contempt for something ultimately fuels one’s drive. Like Joan Crawford, it can become the very thing that increases our longevity, gives us a renaissance–a raison d’être, in short.
And what else is going to keep you going while you sit staring at the walls of your cube, wondering how and where it all went wrong–other than the sheer adrenaline rush of ire? Certainly not “positive thoughts” secretly acting as denial. Sure, you could join your other co-workers for yoga on Saturdays to bond and “find your zen,” but then you’d be giving up the only talent that still hasn’t been taken away from you–that hasn’t been worn down by daily disuse of your brain and time. Francis of Assisi might have said, “Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow love,” but then, he also got to be outside all day in nature making his own schedule and probably getting a little too fresh with animals–not trapped in a beige corporate office with those whose contentment enveloping him only stoked the flame of his vitriol.