I started working for myself so that I could set my own hours, enjoy the luxury of not having to battle through the hell that is the daily commute (incredible savings on petrol is just one of the perks!), and be a complete stranger to the minefield that is office politics.
Not for me the fumes of the city, the stink of the drain behind the best fried noodles in town, or the tedium of having to wait behind another car whose driver appears to be colour-blind.
Freedom to earn my own keep when and wherever I want it.
Freedom from having to dress "nice" each morning for people I couldn't care less about seeing.
At liberty to eat anything I want for lunch and not have to worry that I made the office smell like armpits.
So.
It's after "office hours" and I'm looking through work to get a head-start on tomorrow's work.
I dress nice (from the waist up anyways) for Skype because the client wants to be assured that, no, they are not dealing with a borderline sociopath with only 2 modes of dress (pajamas and birthday suit).
Lunch is usually something that resembles a salad or whatever bone the neighbour throws me because, hey, who has time to cook when they're dealing with people in 3 (or 5) different time zones, all of whom want things done yesterday?
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| Comic by NC Winters |
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