Diary: Steve Jobs Sucks Cocks in Hell

Ugh, thinking about work.  Thinking about work on a Sunday.  Not only that, but I better get off this journal and go do some actual fucking work.  On a Sunday.  Because I am a white collar professional in the United States of America in 2012.  Typically, in the past, a job with these sorts of demands would have a least paid you handsomely.  But now, everything is in decline. Every industry.  So we all gotta work harder, we gotta work longer, we gotta do more with less.  We gotta hustle. So many people want your job that you are constantly auditioning for your job. And yes, I know it’s better than getting your hands chopped off in some Sierra Leonian diamond mine at age ten.  My point is, only marginally.

You gotta be plowing through shit on the weekends in order to keep your job that if you calculated the actual man-hours would pay less than minimum wage.  To keep your health benefits where if you chopped your hand off and went to the emergency room your motherfucking insurance company wouldn’t pay for it anyway.  You gotta be hustling and if only you hustled more you’d have it better.  If only you hadn’t allotted a mere sixteen hours of your day to coming up with new and innovative ways to do more with less, you would have had job security.  You would have had a good living.  But you, dilettante, just showed up and gave away ninety per cent of your youth, time, and energy.  The bare minimum. We gotta be giving one hundred ten per cent here people.  If only you had also dreamed about work and come up with some great revenue generating idea between images of a horribly dying chimerical sea creature with the face of your mother, you’d be sitting pretty.  You’d be slightly more comfortable that you weren’t on the verge of losing this waking nightmare that takes ninety per cent of your life.

This is why Steve Jobs sucks cocks in Hell.  I so fucking hated the worshipful postmortem of this monomaniac who was revered because he was obsessed with work, and loved scornfully busting other people’s balls if they weren’t obsessively working for him. The fact that this type of malformed quasi-human is a “hero” is why there is no way to have any kind of life in this country without being dedicated to work to the detriment of everything else. We worship people who worship work and money.  We scoff at people who don’t want to work hard.  Which is to say, every person with a soul.

Much was made about Jobs’ last words being “wow.. oh wow” as though he were fully comprehending the infinite universes contained in a single flower petal. But I bet he was remembering some regression formula he had browbeaten some underling into coming up with that successfully calculated the bare minimum you could pay some faceless Shanghai serf to bend a lead wire ten thousand times per day before they threaten to jump off a building.  I bet he was calculating the compound interest on that bonus he fucked Wozniak out of forty years back and becoming one with the dazzling power of logarithmic growth. I bet he was remembering how he’d fucked over some corporate rival and gotten them to fold–  like, he’d heard the news that Adobe Flash Player was finally tanking.*  Whatever it was, you can one hundered per cent god damn guarantee that whatever Jobs was oh wow-ing about as the cancer of his soul  finally became corporeal was some mercenary thing having to do with work, money and ambition.

*Which, to be fair, fuck Flash Player.  If you told me on my deathbed that my children would never have to restart their browser because fucking Flash Player had yet another required fucking update like they do every eighteen minutes my death-rattle would probably also be “oh wow…”

Tags: diary, my fucking job, steve jobs, work