Workaholic

It was a Saturday night. He's working his ass off to get the job done, wondering why he is the only one left in the office, less the security guard. Regardless of the work he produces, he does not stand any chance of being promoted any time soon, mainly because he is just a part-timer. Moreover, promotion would mean more work for him to do.

Yet he works on, knowing that he would not be pleased with himself if he were to do something without putting in his effort. He has been like this for his whole life. As long as he's tasked a job, like it or hate it, he will always put in maximum effort. Either that, or not do it at all. There is no in-between. He keeps his focus on his work, less the occasional irritating, and somewhat frustrating thought that his fellow colleagues, and even his boss, the one who gave him such a workload to begin with, are probably hitting the night clubs, or the brothels. The more conservative ones are probably at home typing away at the computer, and the faithful ones are almost definitely making out with their respective partners. Yet, there he is, in the office, trying to get work done.

He knew the price he's paying for choosing work over just about everything else. To make matters worse, he has stayed the night before, burning the midnight oil, trying to complete what's been tasked to him. He has chosen, yet again, to complete his work instead of returning home to his parents, or to his most wonderful girlfriend. He has chosen once again to sacrifice all these, just because he has been tasked with a job.

But he does not get distracted for long. He brushes these thoughts away and quickly returns to his job. Day and night has no meaning for him at this moment. A Monday is no different from a Sunday. He skips meals just to carry on working.

And there he is, typing away as he goes on working. The thought of leaving everything behind hits him briefly. Maybe he'll do it one day. Just, maybe.