Not-So-Final Thoughts on the Passing of Michael Jackson

I know I’m about three or four days late, but I have something to say about the passing of pop music’s most infamous performer.

I, like many, was stunned by the sudden revelation that the eccentric recluse was dead. I, like many, didn’t know how truly physically ill he was. I was immediately struck by the outpour of anguish and grief. People flocked to his rented LA home and wept and prayed and sobbed like he was family. Fans and fellow celebrities gushed to CNN and NBC about how the world had suffered a great and terrible loss, and about how they were shocked and horrified and in the throes of great sorrow. Millions flocked to Facebook and Twitter and claimed that they would have twins in his honor and name them “Michael” and “Jackson” – even if they were girls.

I understood the shock, for it’s almost always surprising when a celebrity – even a bizarre one with a tainted past – falls ill and dies mere hours afterwards. What bothered me the most at the time was how, in a matter of minutes, the media and public seemed to forget that, for the past 15 or so years, they’d wanted nothing to do with Michael Jackson.

Sure, mourners wanted to honor his enormous and immeasurable contribution to music. It’s very true that without MJ, there would be no JT (or at least not the JT we know and love). Still, it seemed slightly inappropriate that people would speak of a great loss when some of those same mourners had perhaps thought – maybe even just once – that the shattered, troubled soul that was Michael Jackson just wasn’t worth saving.

People had good reason to dislike him.

Once, he was a musical powerhouse, dancing and singing and producing hit after hit after hit. A phenomenally talented child, he evolved into a legendary pop star as a young man, releasing some of the most popular albums ever made. People forgave him his bejeweled jackets and outlandish possessions (he owned a monkey at one point). They dressed as him for Halloween and learned the Thriller dance and the moonwalk. Then, things started getting…weird.

He kissed his then-wife Lisa Marie Presley on stage and made people uncomfortable. His hair caught fire during a Pepsi promo and he screamed like a woman (that was a little big funny). He built the ostentatious and notorious Neverland Ranch. This ranch was a wildly expensive fantasy-land filled with roller coasters and candy and Peter Pan paraphernalia. It was just as much a present for himself as it was for the many children who came to visit. Oh, and who could forget the shocking physical transformation that turned a young black man into a white, practically faceless wax statue? It was stranger than any book or movie – and it was accompanied by allegations of child sexual abuse.

Interestingly enough, the other reaction to the news of Jackson’s death was gleeful indifference. Some people proclaimed that his death was a blessing, for he was nothing more than a child molester who managed to pay off his accusers. Though Jackson’s reputation will always be coloured by the terrible accusations – and his admitted conduct with children will always be known as inappropriate – no one will ever truly know if Jackson molested the two boys whose families pressed charges. While many can rightfully argue that Jackson had no right to sleep and bathe with children who were not his own, it cannot be said with certainly if his conduct was consciously criminal.

That said, where were those nearest and dearest to Jackson when his life turned – both literally and figuratively – into a circus? The media – who lamented his passing – was there through every step of Jackson’s bizarre journey into absolute madness, constantly documenting his unexplainable behavior. He was a joke, a spectacle, and a town fool. The world laughed at his public gaffes, and why wouldn’t it? Everything he did was ridiculous.

“Did you hear Michael Jackson came out to greet reporters wearing a surgical mask before dangling a baby over a balcony?”

“Yeah. He’s fucked up.”

The once wildly revered pop star blew his massive fortune on garish sculptures and paintings, and commissioned numerous wax statues of himself. I suspect Jackson spent a lot of time worshipping the person he once was and would never be again.

Now people are wondering who is to blame for his sudden death. Was it the doctor who prescribed too many painkillers? The media who made fun of him for amputating his own face?

No, perhaps the blame lies with those closest to him. Maybe it belongs to his abusive father and stupid mother, who treated him like a commodity and not a child. Maybe it belongs to the producers who treated a talented little boy like a full-grown adult and denied him genuine and necessary lessons in growth. Jackson seemingly grew up believing he was special (and he was), and he never learned that one cannot live on fantasy alone. People are fickle, and they can stop loving you. Money doesn’t grow on Peter Pan fairy-trees, what goes out must come in. Perhaps the media and public should turn an accusing eye on Jackson’s close friends and family who, throughout the years, never tried hard enough to get him the help he so desperately needed.

It seems that when Jackson realized that the world wasn’t filled with talking trees and friendly chimps and an endless supply of money, he was hit hard. He didn’t turn to drugs and sex and alcohol in the traditional rockstar way, he just went batshit crazy. He lost his mind and befriended various children, sequestering himself in his own private Disney world where every day was filled with ice cream and dinosaurs and hot air balloons.

Mourning fans have extended their condolences to Jackson’s family, but perhaps they don’t deserve the sympathy – his selfish and mercenary parents certainly don’t. During his lifetime Jackson failed a lot of people, but a lot of people failed him too. Fame hasn’t always been kind to children, and few emerge from the bright lights of Hollywood indulgence unscathed. When Jackson went from being eccentric to blatantly mentally ill, those closest to him should, perhaps, have done more. Maybe they did try, but really, we’ll never know.

It’s odd that some people are saying that his death is a tragedy. The last two decades of his life have been a tragedy, and this is merely a sad ending to what had already become a very sad story.

Some are calling for the blood of Jackson’s live-in physician, who many believe to have been responsible for his untimely death. Maybe – and this will sound like a terrible thing to say – Jackson’s doctor was merely being merciful. This world didn’t have much to offer Jackson anymore, and maybe he (Jackson) knew that. Now, he’s free to enjoy the ice cream, dinosaurs and hot air balloons elsewhere. No one will point and laugh at his weird nose ever again.

If I Had My Own Office…

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.

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! 

 

 

Keeping up Appearances

I swore I would never go more than a week without updating.  However, like many of my goals, that resolution has not been met.

But here I am.  Updating.  For your viewing – well, reading - pleasure. 

Since we last spoke, I:

- Applied for two jobs that I’m not going to get. 

- I started something that I don’t think I can properly finish.  

- I repeated a troublesome past mistake, albeit from a different angle (and I’m going to have to fix in soon). 

- I was asked, repeatedly, “do you like your job?”  To which I replied, “No – and no, I don’t want to talk about it.”  By answering that question in that manner, I managed to do some “networking.”  Let’s see how that plays out.   

However, I do think things are going to be all right.  Eventually, of course. 

I also realized that a calm and reasonable demeanor can come in handy at the most unexpected times. 

This weekend, I went to a club for a friend-of-a-friend’s birthday.  The day itself was busy- I woke up unreasonably late, ate, showered for an extraordinary amount of time (Saturday is my “excessively long shower day”), went to the bank and liquor store, then drove to a far-off (well, not really) city to park my pussy wagon for the night, and then headed downtown with a friend.

Once we arrived, I began pre-drinking (which I never do).  I avoid pre-drinking because it almost always dooms me to suffer a terrible evening.  Every time I’ve gotten a buzz pre-club, something has gone wrong later in the night.  These mishaps can range from moderate to severe.  Some grieve me for hours, others for months. 

So here I am, sitting in a friend-of-a-friend’s apartment, intoxicated while watching people play video games.  It was the wrong time to be feeling the booze, only because it was horribly pre-mature.

The limo arrived, and we went to the club.  My buzz had worn off, but I was beginning to feel nauseous.  I hadn’t eaten since noon, and I’m not one who can drink on an empty stomach.  However, I willed myself back to a passable semblance of perfect health and unbeatable vitality. 

When I walked up the bar for my free shot, I knew I couldn’t do it.  One shot would have been the vomit-on-the-shoes death of me.  A near-stranger’s birthday party would be soiled on my account – and I couldn’t have that.  So I opted to start my “water-only” period at 10:30 PM.

On the upside, I saved a lot of money. 

As the night wore on and the crowd grew larger, the excessive presence of sweaty humanity became too much.  I was going to puke.  There was no more negotiating with my stomach.  I couldn’t beg my body to shut the fuck up and relax any longer. 

I was far – far! – away from the washroom.  In fact, there wasn’t one to be found on the main floor (which was precisely where I was located).  I moved, swiftly, through the crowd and towards the staircase. 

Do you have any idea how hard it is to navigate your way through hundreds of towering men and gyrating couples?  Do you know how difficult it can be to make your apology sound sincere when you’re holding back vomit and various people are yelling, “bitch, what the fuck?” while you shove them out of your way? 

They don’t know or understand your plight.  They can’t feel your pain, desperation or agony. 

When you have to puke, you don’t have an incredible window of time to prepare.  It’s not like having to pee.  With some exceptions, urination is something your body gives you adequate time to prepare for.  You have the luxury of saying, “hey, I should probably make my way to a bathroom within the next 10-15 minutes.” 

People who are about to throw-up do not have a comfortable grace period.  They have less than 30 seconds.  When the body wants something gone – by God, it’ll make it gone! 

So I ran up the stairs, trying not to cough or breathe or open my mouth.  I didn’t want to cover my mouth, because that just screams, “holy shit I’m going to puke!”  I wanted to be discreet.  It’s something I’ve managed to pull off in the past, actually. 

However, the stairs were too much (what with the bouncing and all).  I made it to a garbage can (which, in my estimation, was far better than the floor).

I almost managed to finish in peace, when I felt a strong, distinctly male hand on my shoulder.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Shit.

“I’m not drunk.  I’m sick.  I actually haven’t bought a drink yet tonight.”

“I don’t care, you can’t do that in front of everyone, that’s inconsiderate.  There’s a bathroom on this floor, you should have gone in there.”

“Well, you see…that was the plan.  However, I had to walk the entire length of the club and run up a flight of stairs.  My progress was impeded by the massive throngs of humanity blocking my way.  I’m surprised I even made it this far, and a garbage can is better than the floor, no?”

“Get your friends and get out.”

“Fine.”

Needless to say, I didn’t leave. 

I wonder if, had I been a man or a bitchier girl with serious attitude, he would have followed me down the stairs and escorted me to coat-check. 

I understand that it’s uncouth to vomit in a club.  However, I took issue with being told I was “inconsiderate.”  I’d be inconsiderate if I’d thrown up on the floor or staircase.  I’d be inconsiderate if I purposely drank beyond my limit and vomited on myself and others.  I’d be inconsiderate if I didn’t at least try to make it to a bathroom. 

However, I did none of those things.  Etiquette and dignity were great concerns when I made my way to the washroom.  I suppose I was just angry that my efforts – which were vast – were ignored.  I did the best I could under the circumstances. 

No more pre-drinking for me…ever.

Mistakes and the Like…

I rear-ended someone on the way to work this morning. 

I could make excuses for myself.  The road was wet, the guy in front of me abruptly slammed on his breaks, etc.  The truth of the matter is that I was making three mistakes simultaneously:

1) I was concentrating on changing the station rather than steering.

2) I was following too closely.

3) Given the wet conditions, I was driving too fast.

So in a split second, I was slamming on my brakes and sliding into the back of a purple Ford.  It made an unappealing noise, the vibration of the ABS combined with cracking red plastic.  To make matters worse, the guy I hit slid into the SUV in front of him, leading to a three-car pile-up on a congested highway.

We all pulled over.  It was hard to hear each other over the roar of morning traffic, and the spray from other car’s tires was hitting our faces as we examined the damage (most of which I, thankfully, sustained). 

The guys were nice enough.  The one with SUV took my information, but said not to expect a phone call.  His vehicle suffered no visible damage.  The man I hit has a bent license plate to contend with, but that’s the extent of the carnage.  I’m not expecting to hear from him either -but if he calls I’ll gladly cough up however much it’ll cost to fix the minor damage. 

I doubt he’ll insist on going through insurance. 

At least, I hope he wont. 

So needless to say, today has been a “bad day.”  It’s a different animal from the internalized bad day, in which one feels out of sorts.  This is the circumstantial bad day, in which things occur that are decidedly unpleasant.  A circumstantial bad day has more to do with fender benders, break-ups and firings than lack of sleep or existential angst.  And, I must admit, this is the first traditionally circumstantial bad day I’ve experienced in roughly three months. 

I suppose I was due for one.

However, I have no one to blame for it but myself.  I was careless.  I no doubt validated two people should they have believed (like many men before them), that blond women don’t belong behind the steering wheel of a car. 

I’m normally a good driver, I swear!

My plastic bumper is cracked to shit and my license plate is dented beyond repair, so it’ll have to be replaced.  The bumper might have to be as well.  I’ll take the car in for an estimation on Wednesday. 

I’m not opposed to leaving the bumper as is, but we’ll see.  I’m not under the illusion that I drive a beautiful or prestigious car.  It’s not monstrous, but it’s not sexy either.  Aesthetics aren’t of great concern to me.  Perhaps they would be if I drove a Mercedes, but I don’t. 

On an unrelated note, I’ve made some seemingly subconscious New Years resolutions.  I think that, in some cases, writing your resolutions down or speaking them aloud in the presence of others jinxes them.  Sudden passion is often the worst kind, as it fades faster than long-term, gradual, sustained passion.  Sure, it’s exciting to decide one morning that you’re only going to buy organic fruits and vegetables from that point on.  But the chance of you sticking to such a resolution is slim, especially once you notice the change in your grocery bill. 

Life changes need to be made gradually, and your mind (and sometimes wallet) needs time to adjust.  Rapid changes are jarring, and jarring changes can feel like ill-fitting ones.  Just as you won’t love your new dress shoes the first time you wear them, you wont feel complete the moment you order a salad instead of chicken wings. 

You need to decided – over a reasonable period of time – whether you’re truly dedicated and motivated.  You can’t go for three-hour runs four times a week when the only movement you’ve ever known is the brief walk from your car to the office.  You have to work your way there, and want to keep working.

It took a long-standing general malaise to compel me to make changes.  I needed to sit for awhile in my own dissatisfaction (like a monkey sitting in its own poop), before I realized the stench was worsening, and needed to be abandoned. 

Gradually, I learned what was working for me and what wasn’t.  My mind changed, then my actions followed. 

Oddly enough, whenever I’ve said, “I’m going to do this starting now!” – I haven’t.  Now, when I’ve made no conscious decision to shift my focus, it has suddenly shifted – in a good way, I think.  I guess it was just time, and a part of me realized and accepted that. 

Pussy

I got you, filthy perverts.

There isn’t mention of actual pussy in this entry.  I’m sorry.  I know you’re disappointed (and rightfully so). 

Forgive me?

This entry is going to be short, as I’ll be leaving work in 8 short minutes. 

I’m becoming scarily addicted to the Craigslist casual encounters section.  They’re intriguing, funny, perverse (mostly in a good way) and – on rare occassions – kind of  heart-breaking.  A lot of people out there just want to cuddle, and can’t find a real-life friend or lover to do it with.  My heart sinks a little at the thought of turning to the internet to find not merely sex, but human affection.  Some people – unless they’re lying, of course – just crave arms around them, and can’t find a willing body to provide them.

There is a certain beauty in just lying on a couch wrapped around another person.  I think a lot of people tend to forget that.

To fill the emotional void unintentionally created in my search for cheaply obtained laughter and titillation, I’ll comfort myself with a latte on the way home today.

That’ll do it.

P.S. Happy New Year.

A Box Free of Soap

No soap-boxing today.

That’s not to say that there’s nothing to soap box about, I just don’t feel like doing it.  It’s Christmas-time, and I don’t have any energy.  

However, this is the first Christmas I’ve actively looked forward to since, like, childhood.  The last time the idea of Christmas brought me any sort of joy was when I was in grade 8.  I don’t feel particularly high-spirited, but I’m looking forward to the break (however brief it’ll be, now that I work full-time).  My two-day vacation will break up my monotonous (scarily so, these days) schedule. 

I don’t really like my job,  however fortunate enough I am to have it (and I know I should be thankful every time my alarm doesn’t go off at 5 am on a Friday morning indicating that the Starbucks pastry case needs tending to in a half hour).  Still, eight hours of paper-pushing isn’t what I had in mind for myself when I started school four years ago.  Then again, I’d be better off if I was more of a self-motivator.  Instead of actively looking for better opportunities, I often choose to sit.

In ten years, I might be that Hispanic liquor store janitor in Superbad saying, ”fuck my life.”    

I haven’t written anything substantial since school ended.  Sometimes, when I promise myself that I’ll schedule some much needed alone-time with Oscar (my laptop), I end up re-reading old essays, stories, blog entries and personal e-mails/Facebook messages and scowling at the screen.  I think of all the ways those pieces of writing could be improved upon, but I rarely start anything new.  I feel like I can’t, and I don’t know why. 

 A year ago, I used to think that my writing was best when my mind was clear – that is, free of immediate and self-centered concerns.  I suppose I thought that a distraction-free mind was a more rational one (which is probably true, but that’s neither here nor there). 

However, looking back at things I’ve written during extreme emotional highs and lows, I realize that they’re a bit better than the pieces I wrote while free of internal ecstasy/distress.  The problem is that times of unexpected happiness and sadness rarely compel me to write.  In fact, when the pendulum is swinging too hard to the left or right, I try to spend time away from Oscar (but he understands, and loves me anyways).   

Perhaps, to be successful, I need to be in a constant state of mental mania or anguish – with my very livelihood depending on churning out articles/stories/whathaveyou, etc.  I’ll write when I need to, when the circumstances are perilous and I have no choice.  When I’m not compelled, I tend not to.  Probably because I’m lazy and devoid of passion. 

Perhaps I’d have more motivation if I didn’t have a cushy, well-paying job to support my sedentary ass.  I suppose I haven’t experienced enough character-building situations in my life.  Some people might recommend some kind of bare-bones pilgrimage to change this, but that kind of journey isn’t in the cards for someone like me.  I’m too attached to daily comforts, like hair-dryers as powerful as Lear jets and expensive moisturizers infused with luscious scented botanicals. 

Besides, I did the whole back-packing thing this past summer, and it didn’t do much to fundamentally transform me.  I’d still die if I got lost in the wilderness.

In happier news, a puppy is on his way.  He’s a two-week old West Highland Terrier, and we get to take him home at the end of January. 

Pictures are coming – make no mistake of that.

Bored at Work…

Given my occupation, that title is going to appear quite frequently.

I don’t like my job insofar as it’s not the job I want to do forever.  It’s not even the job I want to do for a year.  In fact, I’d be pleased to relinquish it now in exchange for something else.  However, it’s all I have at the moment and it pays the (Visa) bills. 

Another thing I’d like to relinquish is my current living situation.  Now don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing particularly harrowing happening at home.  But I’m growing (nay, have grown) weary of living there (which, I’m aware, I do rent free and therefore shouldn’t complain).  I just need my own space, a place filled with nothing but my numerous personal effects.

I’d be delighted in a near-orgasmic manner to step into a bathroom and see nothing but my own toothpaste, shampoo, soap, other assorted toiletries, etc.  I would buy, at minimum, ten aromatic body washes and display them like decorative ornaments – and no one could fault for me for it.  It’s not their counter-space I’d be cluttering. 

I would proudly display my vast DVD and book collection, and would no longer feel compelled to hide the more salacious titles at the back. In fact, my first order of business would be to purchase a large and glossy erotic coffee-table book.  Perhaps I’d go with a photographic anthology of sorts.  It’d be realistic, but not seedy.  Well, real sex can be seedy sex.  Almost all real-life sex is, at the very least, seedier than movie and TV sex.  There aren’t always strategically placed sheets, graceful thrusts and quiet moans of pleasure.  Sometimes there’s sweat, and grunting, and gleefully embraced nudity. Well, sometimes movie and HBO TV sex is seedy, but it still tries to appear somewhat elegant.  Sex is a profoundly inelegant act.  In fact, I recommend that you attempt to recollect your pre-coital behaviour next time you’re gyrating and breathing like a beast.  You’ll wonder how you went from moderately civil and composed to outrageously neanderthal-esque in a manner of hours (or minutes, whatever). 

On a less sexual note, something good might happen to me – but I can’t be sure.  This decidedly good thing has nothing to do with a job or a man, so don’t get excited.  I won’t mention it here, for fear of tempting jinxes and whatnot.  Just know that, should this thing occur, I’ll be over-joyed.  I’ll be granted a great opportunity to do some things that desperately need doing.  I’ll also be able to figure out some personal stuff.

So, to all of you religious and non-religious folk, pray (or wish) for my good fortune.