I hate my job. I know, it's been said before, but unfortunately in this instance I'm probably in agreement with at least ninety percent of the working population. I hate ungrateful customers who won't lift a finger to scratch their own ass. I hate liars and frauds and cheats who try to 'get one over' on the insurance company. I hate this office, with it's florescent lighting and dirty green carpet. I hate my boss with his inability to do anything at all, including buying some goddamned paper towels and coffee at Wal-mart without me spoon feeding it to him. Most of all, I hate my no-work-ethic-having, calling-in-sick, lazy-ass motherfucking co-workers.

Now, that venom all spewed out in the open, here's my dilemna:

I get paid quite a bit for this job. Enough so that I'm having a hard time changing jobs without taking a pretty harsh pay cut. The family won't starve if I did this, but our Cozumel trips and weekly dinners out would come to a screeching halt for a while. And I'm pretty sure amazon.com, oldnavy.com, and penneys.com would no longer know me on a first name basis. I might even have to let go of the platinum visa for a while. Well, scratch that last bit, I won't be POOR, just not living up to my usual quality of life. Yes, this sounds snotty to me and like a no brainer. BUT at what point is your mental happiness worth those extra zeroes at the end of your paycheck?

It should be never, right? But that's not the case at all. Not for me, and not for tons of other people out there, counting down the days each week until Friday. Then trying to cram a weeks' worth of life into the next two days.