Today is my last day of work.
You have no idea how relieved I am. The soul-melting agony of monotony is (temporarily, perhaps) over. I will proceed to lend my mind to more engaging tasks from here on in. I hope.
I will track my last file soon. Well, my last file for several months. I might come back at Christmas - but that’s a long way away.
I am so happy I could weep!
So, I’ve been thinking about social politics again. Social politics are probably the only politics I think about, because I’m a shallow and superficial person. I articulate myself well (sometimes), but I’m not overly intelligent (a fact I’ve come to accept). I have a limited understanding of complex facts and figures, and I still count on my fingers. What’s 10 per cent of 127 dollars? I don’t know, I stopped doing math after grade 10.
However, I do like a hot discussion about a hot topic - like, say, an attractive politician’s affair with a sultry blonde subordinate.
I moreso like reading people’s reactions to it.
There’s a lot of indignation regarding politician’s sexual indiscretions. A lot of titillation and fascination too, granted. Still, when news of an affair breaks, people decry the immorality and some (not all) lament the decline in family values and God-fearing personal integrity.
In the case of John Edwards, a certain degree of disappointed head-shaking is called for. His wife is terminally ill and has been battling cancer since 2004. A woman who has lost a son and her health is now being forced to deal with the humiliation of having the world know her charismatic husband fucked around on her with a woman he may or may not have impregnated (the jury is still out on that one).
I feel for her, we all feel for her.
However, what’s most fascinating about this incident (and others like it) is that in the United States, sexual dalliances - when revealed - are always career-killers (unless you’re Bill Clinton). However, to be fair, Clinton suffered a fair bit once the world found out about his little on-the-side BJ.
I’m not defending people who cheat. Cheating is hurtful, harmful and destructive. It is not, however, a political issue. It’s a personal one, involving several people - not millions or billions. Some would argue that infidelity is indicative of poor character (and it can be), but it probably doesn’t affect how a person does his or her job. People behave differently in their interpersonal relationships than they do in their professional lives (generally speaking, anyways). Also, there’s probably no one cause of unfaithfulness.
In the case of Edwards, living with a terminally ill woman may have compelled him to seek carefree sex elsewhere. That’s not to say what he did was excusable, but it puts the situation into perspective. What he did was probably more careless and weak than malicious. People seek different kinds of sexual fulfillment for vast reasons, most of which cannot be understood by themselves, let alone a gossipy public.
I’ve become inclined to think that the public prefers to focus on small, scandalous issues because they’re easier to understand and discuss. Understanding economics and public policy can be trickier. It requires more study and concentration, and a deeper understanding of the subject matter.
Any asshole can spout opinions on matters of social significance. Even politicians will choose to debate frivolous issues that affect small pockets of people instead of major issues with world-wide implications.
Why talk about a failed war, plummeting economy and escalating environmental damage when you can incite rage by shrieking about the grave danger inherent in allowing the state to sanction and condone men marrying men? People are more likely to get uppity about trivial issues that affect their emotions rather than their lives. The idea of gay people marrying disturbs some people psychologically. Yet, when these marriages start happening, the lives of numerous naysayers won’t change overmuch. They’ll work the same jobs, make the same salaries, eat the same foods, live in the same houses, etc.
People will rally against things that, in the grand scheme of things, don’t matter all that much. Similar logic can be applied to the abortion debate. The idea of abortion causes emotional unrest, but doesn’t affect people all that much. Abortions are, at the end of the day, between women and their doctors. No one ever need know that a fetus was unable to develop. The world hasn’t spontaneously combusted, nor will it.
Over-the-counter availability of the morning after pill? That chaps the ass of a few people - and why? Because the knowledge that people are having sex outside of the confines of a child-wanting marriage bothers some people. Yet, that pre-marital sex isn’t a world issue. It’s a personal issue all around.
STDs - well, most are preventable and almost all (with the exception of AIDS and herpes) are curable. They’re social problems in so far as they’ll be dealt with by certain individuals at some point, much like other diseases. In fact, STDs are less problematic than cancers, which are prevalent and far more difficult to treat and cure.
I’d even go so far as to say that HIV is not a crisis in the West. It was a crisis back in 1987 when no one knew what it was or how to prevent it. People know more now, and can - if they choose - protect themselves. Condoms and routine testing are easily accessible. Collective social crisis averted, I’d say.
Still, it’s easier to dismiss someone based on their sexual proclivities or tolerance of sticky social subjects. It’s harder to think of big issues, issues that can and will affect the world at large. Issues that will, inevitably, affect one’s life. Instead, people debate subject matter close to their hearts. There’s nothing wrong with passion or thoughtfulness, but it shouldn’t dominate political discourse. In the end, a lot of hot topics don’t really matter.
Gay people getting married? A good thing, because nothing particularly bad can come it. It can make you uneasy, but everyone has to deal with things that make them uneasy.
It’s easy to call for someone’s head when he does something wrong in his personal life, but it’s not particularly healthy or affective. Someone else’s blowjob is someone else’s blowjob. Your life wont be any different tomorrow because of it.
I would have a couch in it. Something big and leathery.
I don’t find leather couches more comfortable than other ones, but I find they look more elegant - and perhaps, in the context of an office, more professional.
Every Friday, I’d tell whomever else worked in the building that I need two uninterrupted hours to “work.” I wouldn’t say what I was doing, I’d be vague and mysterious. People would be intrigued, or annoyed.
No, they probably would be more annoyed than anything else.
They’d all be like, “that girl is very strange.”
I’d then take two hours and sleep.
I accidentally dozed off (for less than 10 minutes) on the mini-couch in the lunchroom today. When someone came in, I was embarrassed. Yet, the tiny nap was refreshing, and I enjoyed it while it lasted.
Should I ever work in an office again - and find myself with a room to call my own - I’m getting a couch and I’m sleeping on it during my Friday lunch break.
Make no mistake about that.
No, but for real - you are (and that’s okay).
Despite the fact that I haven’t updated in about a month, I had 15 hits yesterday (I usually average 2-5 a day). I am able to see the words people type into search engines that lead them to my cozy neck of the Internet woods (a nifty WordPress feature, to be sure). Today, I saw the following:
| 2 | |
| naked vacation photos | 2 |
| hot slutz | 1 |
| there a feeling i get when i look to the | 1 |
| squeeze heavy sweaty balls | 1 |
| thoughts of a wayward nature | 1 |
| slob on my neck like corn on the cob | 1 |
| religion + kink | 1 |
| very hot nacked picture in nature | 1 |
| jump on the bed and give me head dont ha |
I like “squeeze heavy sweaty balls” the best. It’s not something I would ever think to punch into a search engine. I haven’t much interest in sweaty balls, or heavy ones. Balls, I think, are utilitarian rather than ornamental. The same could be said for any body part, but most people think of breasts as decorations rather than biologically-necessary appendages. I’d wager a guess that testicle fetishes are almost entirely exclusive to the gay community (but I could be mistaken).
I like that someone searched for “Religion + Kink.” Those two tend to walk hand in hand on occasion, ironically enough.
I’ve come to a realization recently.
I have achieved nothing in my life.
I possess a worthless and meaningless degree that’s been given to mass numbers of people stupider and less motivated than myself. An arts degree is like a happy meal - if you can afford it, you can have it. You can have six or seven, if you’re feeling peckish enough. It’s a shame, really. The arts do mean something. They are, indeed, important.
It’s a disheartening how few career academics take them seriously enough to guard them from flagrant idiots who fail - time and time again - to understand them.
I’m not saying I’m brilliant, but I did appreciate what I studied. I did, at times, care enough to try. I could have, instead, written essays so horrific they bordered on obscene. I would still have that $20,000 piece of paper hanging on my wall.
So yeah, I’m going back to school. I’m a hypocrite, I guess. And, well, I’m getting a little desperate for gainful employment (and easy access to a potential job).
I’m happy to be going back, because I really do hate my job.
Being here depresses me. I feel very hopeless and useless and devoid of passion. The heavy fog of circumstantial depression tends to lift on the weekends, so I attribute my general malaise to my off-white surroundings throughout the week. If I stay here for too long, I’ll only be able to talk about the mysterious picnic at the bank last Wednesday. And the various health complaints of the aging courier with a penchant for peanut M&Ms (we have a candy machine). And the difference between Tazo and Tetley teas. And the horrible pain of pricking yourself with an industrial-size staple that’s come loose within its papery confines.
I can’t do this for much longer.
And I won’t be.
I hope to spend many of my luscious Friday nights in a semi-far away city come September. A cute basement apartment with a tiny bathroom will be a nice change of scenery (despite my love of big, roomy bathrooms).
I’ll also look forward to uninterrupted “prviate time.” You know, the kind free of intruders who gasp and giggle and say that they’ll leave once they use the bathroom “quick-time.”
On an unrelated (yet sad) note, I’ll bid a great man adieu.
George Carlin, it seems, has left us. He was funny, but truly brilliant. He was one of the few who told us all to stop caring about shit that doesn’t matter, and to care about shit that does.
A wise man, indeed - and one who will be missed.
This is not a conservative post, though it will seem that way at first.
A few days ago (or perhaps a few weeks ago, I can’t be sure) my brother, normally a fan of horrendous death metal (horrendous to me, at least), started singing the praises of Lil’ Wayne. I wasn’t totally surprised, as he’s been partial to hip-hop before. His description of the music?
“It’s jokes.”
Being too lazy to download Pop Bottles myself, I listened to it on his computer. It’s not an exceptional song, but it contains an outstanding line(s).
“Okay, start with straight shots and then pop bottles,
Pour it on the models,
Shut up bitch, swallow,
If you can’t swallow,
Shut up bitch, gargle.”
The visual of someone gargling anything (and in this case, Mr. Wayne may be referring to semen) is off-putting in and of itself. Gargling isn’t a particularly sexy act, for it neither looks nor sounds pleasant. It’s usually done to rid one’s mouth of unwanted bacteria.
However, hearing that line got me thinking about other unpleasant - and by “unpleasant” I mean “decidedly unsexy” - lyrics in hip-hop and pop songs.
Look, here, at this erotic collection of steamy words penned by Oscar winning musical geniuses 3-6 Mafia:
“Slob on my knob Like corn on the cob,
Check in with me and do your job,
Lay on the bed and give me head,
Don’t have to ask don’t have to beg
Juicy is my name, sex is my game
Let’s call the boys, let’s run a train
Squeeze on my nuts, lick on my
butt.”
I don’t think a eating corn on the cob - an activity done during casual dinners and my family’s annual Father’s Day BBQ - is an adequate comparison to a blowjob. Mainly because most civilized people don’t “slob” on their corn, but rather bite it with vigor and enthusiasm (something that shouldn’t be done during oral sex).
The rest of the chorus compliments the crass and laughably bad first line. Run a train? Isn’t that illegal in most instances? Is this a consensual train-running? Or a Showgirl’s style train-running? Regardless, it’s not “hot.”
Hearing that line reminded me of a popular Lil’ John (the rapper who always screams YEEEEEAHHHH) song that contained the line:
“Til’ the sweat drops down my balls.”
Sweaty balls. Nice.
It would seem that some sexually suggestive lyrics fail at being both sexy and suggestive. They instead opt to be crass, overt, and - as my brother said - “jokes.” Perhaps this is done purposely, but regardless, it seems unnecessary.
I enjoy a sexually-charged song, and I don’t shy away from explicit content. In fact, I often embrace it. Sex can be reduced to something raw and animalistic in a musical context. It need not be constantly presented as something elegant and softly romantic. However, it doesn’t have to be made into something inherently dirty, either. The lyrics don’t have to allude to spit and sweat, nor do they need to include lewd metaphors that only vaguely apply to the acts being discussed.
Artists have the freedom to be explicit, but some can’t - and don’t - pull it off well. When did subtlety become overrated? When did creativity fall to the wayside? When did songs about sex turn into songs about gargling and eating corn?
A sexy song is, I believe, only sexy if you can imagine yourself having sex to it. Corn on the cob has never been an aphrodisiac for me, nor has the word “slob.” “Slob” is something that comes out a dog’s mouth when he’s chewing a dentabone. Ball sweat has never whipped me into a sensual frenzy. To be fair, I’m sure the term “pussy sweat” would make most men recoil in disgust. You don’t need to be flowery in your descriptions of natural bodily functions, but you can try to be tasteful.
People have lost touch with sexiness. Justin Timberlake, I fear, has not brought it back (though he’s right in claiming that it left).
People took the ball of openness and artistic freedom and ran too far out of bounds with it. They didn’t appreciate the power and privilege, and infused their lyrical creations with juvenile and obscene descriptions of generally desirable erotic activities.
In layman’s terms: Some of these contemporary boundary-pushing “poets” have ruined sex for me (and others, I’d imagine). Nothing quashes desire faster than a overt referral to gurgling or slobbering.
Now, to be fair and gender-inclusive, male rappers aren’t solely responsible for destroying and defacing human sexuality.
Kia asked men to lick:
“My neck,
My back,
My pussy,
and my crack.”
She lost at me at, “crack.” An unsexy word, to be sure. It kind of, I don’t know, takes the mystique out of things.
A few short years ago, songs by Genuwine and LL Cool J were considered relatively raunchy. They were overtly suggestive, yes, but raunchy? Not really - at least, not by today’s disgraceful standards.
“Pony” and “Doin’ It” are probably still on people’s Sex Songs playlists. They have a certain thrust-friendly rhythm to them, and the lyrics serve to compliment the beat. Granted, “Pony” contains some giggle-worthy lyrics. However, because it makes an effort to be edgy and raw (not repulsive), it can get away with silly lines like:
“You’re hor-nay, lets doooo it.”
And:
“My saddle, is waiting,
Come and, jump on it.”
The difference between hot songs and repugnant ones?
Intent.
Do you want to arouse, or shock and horrify? If your goal is to come up with the dirtiest, most pornographic metaphor, your intent is to elicit gasps and raised eyebrows (accompanied by covered mouths). Writing about sweat and slobber is akin to writing about diarrhea - daring, but not necessarily commendable. Honesty is not always the best policy. Being realistic about your exploitative (and perhaps misogynistic) view of sex doesn’t do listeners any favours.
It signifies the creation of one more song that makes people think - for two to three minutes - that sex just isn’t all that sexy.
Disclaimer: I started writing this entry about two weeks ago and abandoned it. I’m only posting it now because I suddenly remembered it was sitting in my draft box.
I haven’t written an entry in far too long. I feel like I’ve been neglecting a good friend, one deserving of much more respect and attention. I actually haven’t written anything lenghty or important in awhile, and I feel guilty.
However, that guilt shall soon be assauged. I have to write several papers - short ones, granted - as a part of the college application process. I bit the bullet, as it were, and applied for several journalism programs. I now may be able to post-pone real-life for another two years, which is wonderful.
Life in the working world - or this working world, at least - is dour and depressing. I’m doing something I’m not fit to do, mentally or psychologically (are those two one in the same?). It’s exhausting because it’s disheartening and monotonous. It makes me want to take up scrap-booking, and I’ve never been one for such crafty pursuits.
Yes, I was bad at Arts & Crafts as a child. My writing was crooked, my drawing pitiful, and my gluing messy. When I was little, I sometimes had trouble colouring inside the lines. It was, at the time, a great source of shame and embarrassment.
For those who say they miss their childhood, what about it do you miss?
Childhood is one of the most difficult things one has to endure - and endure it we must, all of us. Pre-adolescence is the time when you’re most co-dependent and insecure. You can’t do things on your own, you certainly can’t expect to be taken seriously, and thus you absorb people’s bullshit like a sponge. Childhood is when life-long insecurities take root. There may not be a lot of 10 year-old alcoholics, but there’s no doubt things that happen to 10 year-olds that turn them into 40 year-old drunks.
I never long for the “carefree” days of my childhood. I prefer to be able to drive and vote and drink and come and go as I please. I’d take bills over elementary school recess any day.
The best time of life?
When you’re enjoying yourself on your own terms. That can’t really happen when you’re 11 - or at least, it didn’t happen to me.
Now that I’ve officially decided to try going back to school, I feel like a huge weight has been lifted off of my shoulders. I have made a decision - a wise one, at that. I’m going to toy with the idea of working in media for a little while longer. I know it’s what I want to do, I’m just not quite sure how or when to start. This, I think, is a step in the right direction.
In the meantime, I shall reward myself for enduring the daily drudgery of office work (a curse I, admittedly, bestowed upon myself) with late weeknights (and weekends) spent with good friends and hot lovers. Well, there’s only one lover - but really, I’m a simple woman and I only need one ;).
….
All of the above was written a couple of weeks back. I’ve since completed my college applications, but there’s been some administrative fuck-ups regarding those. As of now, circumstances have compelled me to put all of my eggs in one wait-listed basket. We’ll see how things go.
I’m at work, and I should be working. However, I hate my job.
I’ve been saying that for awhile now, and I stand strongly behind my convictions. Still, I haven’t much right to complain, for I’ve done little to improve my situation. I stay here because it’s comfortable, structured, and financially-appealing. I have my evenings and weekends to myself - which, I confess, is important to me. I like to spend my nights socializing, or sitting. I should be setting aside a few nights a week for some researching/writing. However, I’m lazy. Sloth is my Achilles Heel and Kryptonite. I’d come up with other literary and pop culture references, but I can’t think of any at the moment.
Maybe I should go back to school; perhaps take a college journalism course. That way I’d be guaranteed a work placement, and I could go from there.
Then I’d have no money, and would have to put my dream of moving out on hold. Again.
I don’t understand why some people drink so much water.
Seriously, some people go through three or four bottles a day. Does the body need that much? Perhaps I’m strange, for I rarely get thirsty or feel the need to hydrate.
I came across an article that said that a sedentary lifestyle (which is what mine is, to be sure) can cause a spontaneous pulmonary embolism (a potentially fatal blood clot in the lung). I sit far too often, which puts me at risk. I could have one of those bad boys tomorrow. Or not, because of my age - I hope.
Still, that leads to me to my next idea.
A friend has asked me to try out kickboxing with her. I’m intrigued, and interested. I could use the exercise, because I don’t get much sitting at a computer all day. However, I’m afraid of athletic activities, and cheoreography is my mortal enemy. I’m not a graceful woman. I’m clumsy and awkward, no to mention stiff and slow. I’d die if left to my own devices in the wild, and I’d come in last place in a race (that rhymed). I can’t lift boxes or open jars. I avoid running - jogging, even - at all costs. I like to walk - saunter really - from place to place. I like to gesticulate in a sitting position, perched on a chair or couch. I exercise my voice (obnoxiously, perhaps). I neglect my body.
I’d like to change that, but I fear public humiliation and shame.
Still, a little trail kickboxing lesson won’t hurt…
Speaking of exercise, I should walk my dog more - but he hates walking. He’s a strange and vile beast, albeit an adorable one. That, my friends, is why we keep him…
Lesbians make excellent writers. That’s a blanket statement, but it’s flattering. Are flattering blanket statements acceptable? All blanket statements should probably be treated with scorn and annoyance, for allowing some would imply a weakness for unsubstantiated flattery. Such a predilection is undignified, though understandable.
Still, I’ve found myself enthralled by creative projects created by lesbian writers. They’re engaging, intelligent and in my opinion, fairly well-rounded.
The L Word?
Great show.
Sarah Waters?
Excellent author.
I’m not gay, but I seem to like a good gay story-line (or two or three). I also like a good gay advice columnist (Dan Savage).
Every time I have nightmares, they always involve me being somehow unable to dial a phone. I hit the wrong numbers over and over, panicing more and more as I continuosly fail at an astoundingly easy task.
Does anyone else have this problem? Or, at the very least, a passible analysis to offer?
I suppose I should get back to my tracking.
For now, I bid you adieu. May I return with something of importance to say at a later date.
I apologize for last entry’s font. I couldn’t figure out how to run a spellcheck (wordpress has made some changes, it seems), so I edited the text in Word. I couldn’t figure how to restore it to its orignal font, so it looks out of place. It has thrown off my blog’s delicate format, and is unappealing to the eye.
This disappoints me - thought it may please some readers (if I do, in fact, have readers) who may suffer from poor eyesight.
To those who like an aesthetically consistant appearance (people like myself), I apologize.
WordPress: Where for art thou spellcheck?
This format change has left me disgruntled and out of sorts. I dislike such changes.
Seriously, where is the spellcheck?
Isn’t it incredible how much lighter you feel after completing a series of menial tasks? There’s euphoric satisfaction inherent in getting shit done. The less surrounded you are by piles of paper, dirty clothes, and looming debts, the happier you are.
I’m so happy about the stupid and useless tasks I accomplished this week that I feel compelled to write about them.
I began cleaning out my car.
This is huge, because my car almost always borders on filthy. It doesn’t smell - at least, I hope it doesn’t. Still, it’s always littered with old receipts, discarded MapQuest directions, and dirt brought in on people’s shoes. I got rid of the paper and a good portion of the winter grime. Once I get it in for a much overdue oil change, I’m going to get it cleaned. I’m excited about this, almost as excited as I would be if I were about to win a lot of money.
Seriously, that’s how dirty I let my vehicle get.
I did some much-needed grocery shopping. I’ve been dedicated to making healthy lunches, and doing so gets expensive (but still beats out eating at Subway twice a week, financially speaking). Still, I’m always satisfied with my new-found health-consciousness every time I stack up on fruit.
Actually, today marks the fourth occasion on which a co-worker commented on my preference for pineapples and bananas. Those fruits, she claimed, are filled with sugar and will “make me gain weight.”
Repeatedly commenting on people’s food choices is almost always uncalled for. It belongs in the same category as making untoward remarks about someone’s wardrobe to his or her face. Honesty is not always the best policy - in fact, it’s sometimes the worst policy to abide by. Silence, in some cases, is the best (and perhaps only) course of action.
I’m certain that this woman only comes to talk to me in the lunchroom to see what I’m eating. I’m developing a complex, one infused with slight anger and a large helping of indignation.
I managed to take my dog on a successful walk - meaning he walked, on his own, for about half a block. He fought valiantly at first - rolling on the ground, pulling back on his leash, flipping onto his back and refusing to move, etc. He barked and cried and growled and snapped, all to no avail. I’m larger, faster (no, wait - probably not) and smarter than him.
What kind of dog dislikes walks?
Mine, that’s who.
Figures.
I have a roadtrip to prepare for, and I’m incredibly excited.
It’s been awhile since I’ve gone away. In fact, I haven’t had a weekend away from the ordinary since October. That, I suppose, isn’t a long time in the grand scheme of things, but I’m getting tired of the usual surroundings.
The reason for departure revolves around a friend’s ascent into old age - 24 years, to be exact. A birthday party in a far-off (well, actually, not really) land is an exciting thing, mostly because it’s moderately - by my standards at least - exotic. Trips are almost always exciting, especially when you take them with good people.
Needless to say, I’m looking forward to two days of touristy debauchery - not to mention a hotel-stay. I’ve always had a thing for hotels, and until now, have never had the opportunity to have sex in one…
Speaking of sex, an interesting story came to my attention last week.
I was reading Savage Love (as is my weekly ritual), and came across a fake letter written to Dear Abby. The letter detailed a fictitious man’s struggle to deal with a fictitious situation involving sex and mistaken identities.
The writer claimed he was stranded in his parent’s home with his wife and three brothers (all of whom were physically similar to him). His wife, who opted to sleep alone due to a budding cold, came to him the next morning to thank him for the incredible late-night sex.
The problem?
He didn’t have sex with her.
He went on to ask Abby how to confront his brothers, and Abby told him to instead confront his wife - who, she believed, probably knew she was fucking someone else and decided to play innocent outright to mask her guilt.
That advice is, no doubt, ridiculous. Any advice to a question of that nature would be, because a situation like that is never - ever - likely to occur.
One, if someone’s wife or partner were to thank him for sex that he knows he did not partake in, would he say, “you’re welcome” and take his concerns to Dear Abby?
No!
He’d likely stare at his wife in horror and proclaim, aghast, that he definitely didn’t have sex with her that night. Or, initially, he’d express some degree of telling confusion - telling enough to horrify his wife, should she have genuinely believed the man in bed with her to be her husband/boyfriend.
He wouldn’t sit and deliberate for several weeks before contacting - of all people - an anonymous advice columnist. He’d want to find out which brother fucked his wife, and he’d want his wife to know that the mysterious late-night lay had nothing to do with him. He’d no doubt be shocked and appalled at his wife’s apparent inability to recognize the man she’d been sleeping with for several years.
Brothers may share physical characteristics and mannerisms, but they probably don’t share all or most sexual proclivities, and there would have to be a few anatomical differences.
People love to ask advice columnists asinine, made-up questions about absurd sexual situations that involve young, hot people (women, more often than not). Actually, after briefly pursuing a porn store in Amsterdam, it seems that inhumane and degrading sexual situations are endlessly appealing to a decent number of people.
Women with dogs. Women with horses. Women with gardening tools and children’s bath toy, etc.
A symptom of societal sexual retardation?
Perhaps!
I have no issues to discuss today.
Well, that’s not true. I have issues, they’re just not important in the grand scheme of things. In fact, they’re trivial and insignificant to everyone other than me. Still, this is my blog, and therefore subject to my rantings and ravings. I try to make them as interesting as possible, so as to avoid looking self-indulgent (but believe me, I am).
Blogs are often criticized for increasing the self-importance of unimportant people. Apparently people use them, sometimes, to write about issues that no one really cares about. However, I don’t think that’s entirely true. Someone out there can relate, and therefore someone cares. Perhaps one blogger can articulate another’s emotions in a more concise manner.
I’ve had an “off” week.
I’m tired, moreso emotionally than physically.
It seems that things have caught up with me. It was Saturday, after a rather nice day spent in Niagara Falls, that I realized that I don’t know what I’m going to do now that school is well and truly over. I’ve been working full-time for seven months, and I have no exciting or alluring job prospects waiting for me (probably because I haven’t really pursued them).
I have an intermittent writing gig for a fund-raising organization, but they rarely require (or perhaps desire) my input or contributions. The woman I work for is fantastic, but she’s sometimes difficult to get a hold of, and is often at a loss as to how to include me in upcoming projects. I’ve done one assignment in a month, and am currently working on a “we’ll call you when we need you” basis. My portfolio is lackluster and pathetic. I need to start freelancing, but I’m having a hard time motivating myself to do it.
I didn’t get a promising internship that I wanted. I’m not devastated, really, but rather a little disappointed in myself. I believe I’ve missed out on a good opportunity.
I want to move out - nay, I feel that I should move out. However, that would put a strain on some already strained relationships. I need a certain degree of harmony in my life to be happy. I need to feel at peace with the people I interact with most often. I loathe awkward tension and sustained anger. It’s draining, annoying and discomfiting.
I think my household would be a little more harmonious without me in it, but I know I’d still be missed (and resented for choosing to leave). I think, for some parents, it’s hard to come to terms with the idea of an aging family. Your children are your children, but they’re no longer children and cannot be treated as such.
I’m not a respectful “tenant” anymore. I understand that living rent-free obligates me to compromise my adulthood freedoms with lingering parental rules, but I’m no longer accepting it.
I feel guilty and angry simultaneously.
I could leave, but I’ll be strapped for money. I’ll also char - not burn - some bridges that I’d like to keep intact. To put things in perspective, things really aren’t bad enough to leave. Yet, staying probably won’t work out too well in the long-run. I like to come and go as I please, and that’s still difficult for me to do. My mom isn’t strict per se, but she worries. If my brother or myself come home late or don’t call, she assumes we’re dead. She no doubt envisions anguishing eulogies every time she gets my voicemail on my cell. Excessive worry runs in my family, it’s genetic - like heart-disease or cancer.
To compensate, I invite my boyfriend over three or four times a week and use my parent’s basement as a hotel, essentially. The parents are at the stage where they accept it only because there’s no real alternative. My mom would rather I’d be home utilizing her furniture than utilizing empty parking lots where we’d risk, like, police intervention and stuff.
Still, it’s made things weird. However, when I bring up the idea of renting an apartment, she backs off with her criticisms. She’d rather have a desecrated leather couch than an permanently absent daughter.
Score one for the bad guy!
Still, she’s reeling from the sudden death of her father, and I understand that. The logistics of looking after a deceased person’s disorganized affairs are overwhelming. She has money to sort out, a will to decipher, lawyers to consult, a house to sell, and grief to nurture.
To make things easier, I try to stay out of the way. We’ve been having borderline explosive fights over the new dog (I wanted him, she didn’t - and yet she’s home all of the time and I’m not), and things have been contentious for several months. I’ve made my share of mistakes, no doubt. I’m dealing with things improperly. However, I’m not quite sure how to deal with them properly.
A few days ago, I’d have said the best solution was to remove myself (and perhaps the dog) from the house. However, last night she countered my suggestion with a, “we just need to spend more time together, that’s all. Let’s go on a shopping trip soon!” I like that idea. Nothing fixes family tension like materialism (seriously, I’m not kidding). There’s a strange, natural high that comes with over-spending on clothes.
Still, ever since I began feeling detached from the people at home, I’ve begun to wonder who else resents my flighty ways and shitty decisions. Call me neurotic (I can be), but I feel other people - important people whom I care about - rapidly losing patience with me.
If any of these fine people read this blog: I’m sorry. I’m sorry about bailing on club nights and being surly over dinner/drinks. I’m sorry if I go from distant to whiny and needy in seconds. This, too, shall pass. I’ve always been bad with change, and my life is changing.
Maybe I should dedicate Sunday afternoons to writing a sexually explicit novel about ridiculous and improbable things. I’ve always wanted to do that.
For those poor souls who may or may not have read this entire entry, I apologize for boring you with my meandering musings. It was very “emo” of me, and I’m a little embarrassed. At the same time, I needed to waste time at work writing about nothing. Doing that almost always makes me happy.
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