I get it. You’re going through some sort of existential crisis because you’ve hated the past three jobs you quit in the span of 18 months and you’re searching for meaning. But can’t you just talk to me about it like a human being and not some holier-than-thou mystic? Why can’t we just bitch about our dead-end jobs over a glass of wine for a night and then move up and onward like normal people? Instead, I feel like you’re cloaking your real anxieties in magical mumbo-jumbo about your Third Eye, your previous reincarnations dating back to the dawn of time and signs from the universe that—magical as they appear in the photos you send of them—look a lot like regular ol’ sunbeams to me.
I Saw You is an anonymous “man on the street” column. Email your rants and raves about co-workers or any badly behaving citizens to
iS*****@me*******.com
, or send to 380 S. First St, San Jose, 95113. Submissions should stick to about 100 words.
