Random Thoughts About Nothing

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. 

An Apology, and a Complaint

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?

Purges, Roadtrips, and Letters about Sex

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! 

 

 

Self-Indulgence

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.