You are now 32 years old, and your life is a constellation of humiliations.
You hate your job. Your duties lie somewhere between intern and manager and your salary lies just north of intern. Since Christmas, which after a long stretch of doing nothing at all you serendipitously had to work, it’s been slowly creeping into earlier hours of your mornings and later hours of your evenings.
Then there is the never-ending slew of text messages from women whom you don’t respect, but more importantly, who also don’t respect you. You listen to their problems with the utmost deference because these are your friends. They’re not your friends though, not really.
