Don't ask why I'm working in a factory. I'm working in a factory. My collar is literally blue. Not only am I working in a factory, I am getting up at the godforsaken hour of 3:30 a.m. to commute 40 minutes to work in said factory. My roommate is still up when I force myself awake.
As far as factories go, it's actually not too bad. What makes it truly unbearable is the people. Don't get me wrong, I get along with everyone. My fellow assemblers are friendly, hygienic, generally non-lethal. The problem is that they only come in two categories. The first kind I can deal with...
"Ah was born in this town and ah'll die in this town, mah muther worked in this factory and mah daughter works in this factory and mah husband's a truck drahver only he got laid off, so ah looove workin overtahme, nothin to do in this town but go to bed before the sun goes down inyway." These ones are simply fulfilling their blue-collar destinies, and they're OK with that. Some of them are even chipper. They don't bother me too much.
The other kind is seriously making me depressed.
"Oh, I'm just working here temporarily for 12 years before I go back to school and start my own accounting business even though I'm 10 years away from retirement." What's depressing about this (besides all of it) is that I, too, went to college; I, too, am single and childless (and penniless and clueless); I, too, insist that this is temporary, and while I may be far from middle-aged, Daylight Savings is coming up only to remind me that my life is disappearing before my eyes. It doesn't matter that I'm still on the temp agency's payroll and have solemnly vowed to get out of here before the company hires me on. I see myself becoming Type 2 and from there, condemning my future offspring (who could only be the result of factory inbreeding -- dear God no) to Type 1. For the sake of my children's children, I must get out!!!