An insensitive, belligerent look at being told you’re surplus to requirements by your cunty employer.
Top drawer philosophical navel-gazing shit courtesy of a 50p charity bookshop find.
Baking your own artwork in the company bogs won’t get you out of a rut in life, packing it all in for a freelance life of fulfilment will.
Some one-off executive escapism results in a reflective treatise on the monumental disparity between how we perceive, and the reality of, stressful life events.
Work gives people purpose, structured time and identity. Doing bugger all doesn’t. Here’s how to strike a balance.