The other night I was flopped on my esteemed colleague’s couch, all alone with the worst kind of television – Saturday post–Battlestar Galactica. I channel-surfed and managed to ID a movie almost on sight even though I’d never seen it before. It had shitty mid-’90s NCI captions (a partially tautological assessment) that I also IDed nearly on sight. I wondered what it would be like to hate what you do for a living yet nonetheless have to slave away on a gem like this.
You probably come home at night and say to your husband, “My job sucks. Today I captioned Flashdance.”