If its the producer's desire to see me waggle in the wind as I burn bridges and set myself on the streets of bumhood, they can break out the shine box and kneepads. However if they toss a pile a cash my way, as well as direct more lucrative and pleasurable job offers my way, like say, a spot at the television station, then they have found their reckless freak. We'll see. If you think my cynicism over the matter has subsided, worry not, my pessimistic peddle is pushed to the floor. Gonna sniff around, see how they smell.

Actually, the last job I had I walked out on. I was fairly sure that I had the current job I toil at now in the bag already, but I was still going through the interview process. Just couldn't stomach the place anymore. Fuckin print shop. For whatever reason, print and copy shops in NYC are asshole magnets. It was about a half hour into my shift and somebody hands me a redo job that other people ruined the night before, plus they put a super no break no lunch no breathing rush stamp on it. Stared at the order form for about five minutes, printing instructions began dancing around and reconfiguring to spell the words "leave now". So I placed the order down, collected my things and walked up to my manager and told him "this place is retarded, later". Walked out the doors, management and project coordinators calling out to me, didn't turn around to recognize their voices, just walked on home. The oxygen tasted good that day.