I’m lucky to be so passionate about what I do. Some might call it a curse, but I prefer to think of it as a blessing. To me, work isn’t just a job; it’s my one true calling in life. And sure, there are aspects of it that get me down from time to time, but positive thinking always gets me through, because I know that at the end of the day, everything that I do isn’t just a waste of time with no sense of purpose or meaning, but rather a series of grand conjurations intended to invoke the eventual coming of the beast.
I mean, I didn’t just become our go-to guy for all of the wetland restoration projects that we’ve recently acquired because I don’t care about how many more seasons in the abyss the beast might be forced to spend against his infernal will. As far as I’m concerned, wetland restoration isn’t just about improving water quality so that various forms of aquatic life may thrive; it’s about creating a clean, oxygen-rich bottomless pit so that one day that seven-headed behemoth might emerge from its depths and enslave us all.
And while we’re on the topic of the health of the world’s water bodies, nothing makes my heart weep more than the ecological atrocities wrought by algal blooms and red tides. That’s because when the beast finally rises up from out of the sea, I want to see his ten horns dripping red with the blood of the innocent, not dripping red with the harmful toxins and colorful photosynthetic pigments of various nutrient-feeding dinoflagellates. Sure, I get an amazing sense of work satisfaction by helping the world go to hell, but all that phytoplankton crap is just straight-up bullshit.
Maybe it goes without saying, but I give every project my full and utmost attention when I’m on the team, which also means that I utterly subvert it to suit my own perverse, ulterior motives. How else could that new, award-winning, climate-smart brownfield redevelopment project have been engineered to not only withstand the potential damage inflicted by the next devastating storm, but also the ungodly weight of a gargantuan leopard-bear-lion that’s dripping wet with water so pure that you could slurp it up right off his ghastly mane? Because believe me, it takes a lot more than just your standard concrete pavement detail to resist the gravitational impact of the soaked and soggy harbinger of Armageddon. That’s what those of us in the business call “planning for a resilient future.”
And don’t even get me started on the Tree of Heaven. Not only is Ailanthus altissim completely antithetical to my passion’s nature in both name and essence, it’s also non-native and invasive as all get-out. But don’t take my word for it. Just ask any horticulturalist—good or evil—and you’ll receive an earful about all the wrong sorts of damnation that misbegotten weed has inflicted on countless ecological restoration projects across the entire nation. That’s why I always suggest Hemerocallis ‘Satan’s Fire’ and Crocosmia ‘Lucifer’ instead. Not only will those beauties give your latest and greatest remediation effort a little splash of color in the summer months, they’ll also provide some beneficial habitat value to local bee populations and help the beast feel welcomed when he finally lumbers ashore wearing the name of blasphemy upon his many obscene heads.
But I didn’t just get into this line of work to limit myself to solely engaging with it during the standard 9-5 business hours. My passion burns brightly every minute of the day—24/7, just as it should in this apocalyptic century. Work life, personal life, digital absence-of-life—whatever it is, the beast’s got my number. But I’ve also got his. And I think you know what it is. It’s 666, and it’s the one for you and me.
Or, at least that’s what his number is for now. It’s really only just a matter of time before he finally joins LinkedIn.