Here's a snippet of what's to come! Enjoy the introduction to "Workaholic," which can be ordered from Something Or Other Publishing @ https://soopllc.com/product/Workaholic/
My father was a workaholic. The old man had slaved his days away in the coal mines—proud to be doing his part to fuel Appalachia, but a stranger at the dinner table where my mother always kept a plate ready. They taught me as a child that hard, dedicated work was the path of righteousness, something to aspire to. Be devoted to your employers, and they’ll be loyal to you. Earn your keep and they will reward you. In the end, all I earned was an empty pill bottle and this lousy pickaxe.
The blade was dull when I pulled it from the dark closet, stained with years of rust from neglect. A physical symbol of my labor’s burden, the tool dragged after me, scraping against the rough tile floor of the office where I used to work. Admittedly, I was no longer sure whether the wake of red flakes left behind was corrosion or blood. Despite the bright, shining lights and the bitter silence, I could no longer distinguish between what was real and what wasn’t. My former coworkers cowered under their desks while I shuffled. Quiet, as they had been when they all saw me drowning, and praying to the God that forsook us when I passed. One of the faceless screamed when the tip of the ax crashed through the wall of her cubicle. Removing it decapitated the kitschy kitten poster that bolstered everyone to “hang in there.”
I did hang in there. I had gripped the edge of sanity with my fingernails.
