God knows I want to break free...

I have been a corporate bitch for 1 year, 6 months and 27 days. I was hoping I’d dream up a plan by end of March and move on to “something or other.” It’s 13 days to month end, and no such plan has materialized; primarily because instead of dreaming and scheming, I’ve been snacking and slacking.

I’ve had quite a few mediocre plans, the majority of which involve 1) getting laid off or 2) quitting. I prefer the former. I’d like me some unemployment benefits. Besides, no one likes quitters, particularly not the ‘rents. As is apparent from the first sentence of my pseudo-rant, I’m still employed. So, I’m in a bit of a conundrum and have been forced to consider alternate ways of breaking free from the corporate shackles: alternative numero dos - quitting.

What would I do if I quit? I’d sell of all the useless shit I’ve accumulated, abandon my fancy-shmancy Hollywood crib, pack a few pairs of underwear and socks into my piece-of-shit Corolla and vagabond through the good ol’ States for a few weeks/months. Then, I’d cash in on my insurance policy; i.e., the rents’ couch,

I’d mooch off the folks for a couple of weeks and then take off to Moscow. There, I can stay at my dad’s friend’s crib. Maybe he’ll feed me too. When winter kicks in, I’ll hitchhike/couchsurf through Eurasia and the Caucasus . Once I run out of dough, I’ll re-occupy the rents’ couch until the reverse-mortgage part of the parent-child contract kicks in. That’s when I default and dodge. I’m thinking that once I hit thirty, I can combine internet dating and photoshop to meet another sucker whose photoshop skills rival my own.

The plan sounds pretty sweet, eh? The only unrealistic part of the whole shenanigan is moving back home. It was pretty sweet visiting the ‘rents for 2 weeks last year. They fed me well and baked me cookies. They didn’t insist I clean my room or closet; in fact, they cleaned it for me. They washed the dishes after me and bought me presents. It was lovely. But, having lived with them for twenty years, I know better than to fall for a 2 week honeymoon period. I’m fairly certain that after a month, I’d want to shoot myself. And if I shot myself, the plan would never materialize. And if the plan never materializes, what’s the point of moving back home?

Oi vay. I need a better plan. I’m working on one involving a millionaire and a puppy.