I shuffled into the house from work around 8:30 p.m. It was another 12 hour day, one of the many 12 hr days of the six-day weeks I've been working since, oh, August? I was tired. I was resigned to spending the rest of my natural life sitting at my desk and getting nowhere. I've been engaging in the 60-hr a week fallacy for months now. The idea that if I can just work late for this short period of time, if I go in on both weekend days and work late every night, then everything will be in place and maybe I can work a regular 50 hour week or maybe, if it's a holiday, a precious 40 hour week. And that day was no different. A 12 hr day worked, still no feeling of accomplishment or belief that I've actually made a dent in the ever-increasing pile on my desk. I had 3 hours before I went to bed, and exactly 12 hours before I was to start a trial that I hadn't really prepared because I had 8 other trials also scheduled.
When I walked in, I had two pieces of mail awaiting me. One, my bank statement, telling me exactly how little my 60 hr week gets paid, which is exactly how little my 40 hr week gets paid. Two, a flyer with a scratch contest. If I scratch the right number, I get $20,000 or a 10 day Aruba vacation (I could certainly use both). I scratch the number.
I look again.
I look again. There must be a catch.
"No purchase necessary!"
No fucking way.
"MUST CLAIM PRIZE BY...."