I haven’t technically entered the real world yet, but if TV has taught me anything (and God knows, it totalllllly has), it’s this: work makes you want to drink. Where does every sitcom character end up after a day on the grind at their 9-5? The bar. (Except Friends, but I’m reasonably sure Gunther was lacing that coffee with Baileys, anyways.) Cartoons? Same deal. I mean can’t everyone conjure up an image of Peter Griffin throwing ‘em back or Homer Simpson chugging some Duff at Moe’s post-work? Then you’ve got your dramas—Mad Men, for example. Hell, they even drink AT work.

But, with that said, there have got to be certain occupations where you don’t just need a cold one to wind down…you need 12. So here we go, a few of what I’m sure are many alcoholism-inducing occupations. God help you if you got one of these on your high school career aptitude test.

CHARACTER AT DISNEY WORLD: Florida’s already hot as balls. Screaming 4/5/6/8/15-year olds are already debatably the most annoying thing ever. Now imagine if you were sweating your ass off wearing a furry, 200 lb suit while said ulcer-inducing children are chasing after you and either trying to hug you or kick you in the shins. No amount of free funnel cake or unlimited Space Mountain is going to undo THAT damage. Trust me, Mickey’s not smiling inside the suit. And Aladdin? Totally pissed about those gaucho pants.

The happiest place on earth, my ass. Pour me a scotch.

TOLLBOOTH WORKER: I’m not sure this requires much explanation—specifically in Houston. The monotony is bogus, the traffic is awful, people are grumpy and/or suck at giving correct change and—not to be repetitious—but Houston, also hot as balls. And (no offense), I’d imagine 100% sobriety isn’t too necessary to perform this job. After all, THEY’RE not the ones driving. Personally, I’d like to imagine that all their booths are equipped with a stocked wet bar and walkie talkies so they can beat the boredom with drinking games. Or really, take any opportunity to drink.

“Volvo! Volkswagon! Vodkaaaa!”

“Lane two: that’s three Toyotas! Triple tequila time!”

“Comb over and Corvette, lane four. Midlife crisis margaritas!”

(You know you’ve always heard something that sounded suspiciously blender-like from inside the booth.)

PROFESSOR: This has nothing to do with the prestige of the position. I’ve got mad respect for anyone with a Ph.D. But I imagine there’s something really shitty about standing in front of 300 college students who are blatantly texting, Facebooking or—if you’re the kind of professor who bans these things—sulking because they can’t be texting or Facebooking. And God help you if you also take away the snacking privileges. (Although I would’ve rather gone hungry than have had to sit behind a kid eating tuna out of a plastic bag with his fingers freshman year. I mean, really? Tuna. With your fingers. In CLASS. Killing me.) Anyways, basically as a professor, you’re kind of the outcast. Like the sober kid at the frat party. You’re in the same room as everyone else, but you’re not of the same decade. Oh, and you’re the scapegoat. Suzie’s gotta book it out of town for her cousin’s bat mitzvah on test day? Well if you don’t let her reschedule that shit, let it be known your Pick-a-Prof stats are goin’ DOWN homie. And good ol’ Cal’s computer crashed…strategically at 11:59…when a paper was due at midnight? You bout ta be the nemesis on Course Hero collaborations unless you grant dat extension, yo.

(Excuse the slip into ebonics. Clearly I was one of the kids on Facebook.)

Bottom line is it’s no wonder professors always make students buy their books. Gotta finance the liquid therapy somehow.

BLOGGER: And finally, last but not least, there’s blogger. Also, here, a euphemism for unemployment. Except in my case, it’s totally not a problem—it’s research. Yes, very…thorough…research.

Wait, denial is the first sign of a problem, you say?

Well shit.