In terms of work I've always had a Bad Attitude in that I won't

Host: The clock on the wall ticked with the kind of precision that could drive a man mad. Its hands moved like soldiers on parade — rigid, unfeeling, mechanical. The office was sterile, washed in white light, the hum of computers mixing with the faint whir of an air conditioner. Outside, the city glimmered under a grey afternoon, rows of identical buildings standing like tombstones for individuality.

Jack sat slouched in an office chair, his tie hanging loose, his sleeves rolled up like a man halfway between rebellion and resignation. Across from him, Jeeny perched gracefully on the edge of a desk, her black hair spilling over her shoulders, her eyes calm but burning with quiet conviction.

The computer screens around them blinked — lines of code, frozen in a moment of silent rebellion.

Jeeny: “You know what Bram Cohen said once? ‘In terms of work I've always had a bad attitude... I won't work anywhere which requires me to follow strict hours or a dress code.’”

Jack: grins faintly “Sounds like a man after my own heart. I’ve been saying that since I was twenty.”

Host: His voice carried that familiar grit, that blend of defiance and exhaustion only those who’ve wrestled with the world’s rules could wear like a scar.

Jeeny: “But is it really freedom, Jack? Or just another kind of cage — one we build to convince ourselves we’re not prisoners?”

Jack: leans back, smirking “Call it what you want. I just refuse to live like a clock’s slave. You think creativity follows a schedule? You think genius wears a tie?”

Host: The light flickered, casting their shadows across the grey cubicle walls. Jeeny’s face softened, but her brows furrowed with concern.

Jeeny: “Structure doesn’t always kill freedom. Sometimes it holds us together. Even Mozart had to write for the church, Jack. Even Da Vinci took commissions from men in power. They didn’t love the chains, but they learned to bend them.”

Jack: “And you think that’s noble? Selling your time, your soul, to please someone who doesn’t even understand your work? That’s not bending, Jeeny — that’s breaking.”

Host: His fingers drummed against the desk, impatient, restless. The air between them seemed to crackle — not with anger, but with an old, familiar argument between freedom and function.

Jeeny: “You talk like you’re fighting a war. Maybe it’s not the job that traps you — maybe it’s your pride.”

Jack: scoffs “Pride is all I have left. When I worked at that agency — remember? — they wanted me in by nine, wearing some ridiculous suit. I told them I’d rather starve than dress like a funeral director. They called it ‘unprofessional.’ I called it honesty.”

Host: Jeeny smiled — a sad, understanding smile, like someone who’s seen a man punch walls just to prove he’s alive.

Jeeny: “And yet, that job paid for your art supplies for a year, didn’t it? Maybe sometimes we need to walk in chains for a while — not to lose ourselves, but to buy our freedom back later.”

Jack: his tone sharpens “That’s the kind of logic that keeps people in cages their whole lives. One compromise becomes ten. Before you know it, you’re fifty and your dreams are hanging on an office wall, framed between HR posters.”

Jeeny: “And the alternative? What then? You keep chasing some illusion of total freedom — living off scraps, half-finished projects, unpaid dreams? You say it’s about honesty, but maybe it’s just fear. Fear of belonging. Fear of being ordinary.”

Host: The room fell silent. The only sound — the low hum of electricity. Jack’s eyes darkened, his jaw clenched. Outside, a single raindrop struck the window, rolling down slowly, like a tear from the sky.

Jack: “Ordinary… That’s your word, not mine. I just don’t believe in pretending. You think Bram Cohen invented BitTorrent by following a dress code? You think Tesla clocked in at nine sharp every morning? No — they did what they had to, on their own terms. That’s how the world moves forward. By those who refuse to fit.”

Jeeny: “And yet, for every Cohen, there are a thousand dreamers who end up nowhere. Not because they lacked talent, but because they refused to build bridges. Freedom without discipline is chaos, Jack. You can’t create if you’re constantly running from the world.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled slightly, not from fear but from passion. Her hands moved as she spoke, cutting through the air like a conductor commanding an unseen orchestra. Jack’s eyes followed her — not angry now, but searching, wounded.

Jack: “You think I’m running? Maybe I’m just the only one not sleepwalking. Look around, Jeeny — rows of people in suits, clicking mice, dying quietly. They think they’re free because they get weekends off.”

Jeeny: “Freedom isn’t just about breaking walls, Jack. It’s about knowing which ones are worth climbing. Cohen didn’t reject rules to be defiant — he rejected them because they were unreasonable. He still worked. He still built something. You—” her voice softens “—you just stopped building.”

Host: The words hung in the air, heavy, undeniable. Jack’s breath caught, as if the truth had found a way past his armor. The light dimmed slightly, throwing his face into half-shadow — half-anger, half-regret.

Jack: “You think I’ve stopped? You have no idea what it’s like to wake up and feel like the whole world is designed against you. The rules, the hours, the expectations — they’re made for people who fit the mold. I don’t. I never did.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you don’t have to fit. But you do have to stand. Even rebellion needs structure, Jack. Even chaos needs form to mean something.”

Host: Jeeny stepped closer. The sound of her heels echoed — steady, soft, deliberate. The rain outside had started to fall harder now, washing the windows in streaks of silver.

Jeeny: “You fight the world like it’s your enemy. But maybe it’s not about fighting — maybe it’s about finding your rhythm within it. The way a musician finds time within silence. You can keep your principles and still make peace with the rhythm.”

Jack: after a long pause “So you’re saying I should just… adapt?”

Jeeny: “I’m saying you should balance. Refuse what kills your soul, but accept what feeds your work. That’s not compromise — that’s maturity.”

Host: Jack looked down at his hands, rough and marked with years of restless creation. A faint smile touched his lips, weary but real.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe my ‘bad attitude’ wasn’t rebellion — maybe it was just a shield. A way to justify being alone.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it was courage — just misdirected. The world needs people like you, Jack. It just needs you to keep creating, not withdrawing.”

Host: The office lights flickered once more, and then, almost mercifully, went out. The room fell into soft darkness, broken only by the glow of the city beyond. Jeeny reached over and turned off the last screen — its blue light faded like the last pulse of a dying machine.

Jack: “You know… maybe Cohen had it right. Maybe refusing the dress code wasn’t arrogance. Maybe it was the only way to stay human in a world obsessed with control.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But even freedom needs intention. Otherwise, it’s just drift.”

Host: Jack stood, walked to the window, and pressed his hand against the glass. The rain had eased. The city lights shimmered below like scattered thoughts — beautiful, chaotic, alive.

Jack: “Maybe I’ll find a way to do it on my terms. Work without the cage. Build without the leash.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “That’s all anyone can ask for. Not to obey the system, not to destroy it — but to reshape it.”

Host: As they stood there, side by side, the first light of evening touched the office floor, painting their shadows long and thin. The world outside remained loud, orderly, indifferent — but inside, something quiet and vital had shifted.

Freedom wasn’t the absence of rules. It was the art of knowing which ones to break.