Spoiled?

I had a discussion about upper-class cities today, and it got me thinking about wealth and opportunity.

Opportunity eludes some (perhaps many), and it’s often unfair.  For example, a surgeon who moves from India to Canada is forced to work at Tim Horton’s because his degree is not transferrable and he can’t afford to upgrade.  That’s difficult, because some people assume older people in the customer service industry are there because they can’t get a “real” job.  They just couldn’t earn some marketing degree because they were too busy, I don’t know, failing at life.

This phenomenon is, of course, unfair.  Anyone who’s ever worked a minimum-wage job during their high school/college/university years knows that it’s hard to be intermittently condescended to based on an apron.  Everyone who has to ask “do you want fries with that?” knows that there’s a lot of jokes about imbeciles who have to ask wealthy and accomplished lawyers that question everyday.

On the other end of the spectrum is the obvious disdain some people have for those with comfortable salaries and upper-middle class homes.

This – though perhaps less disagreeable because those on the receiving end may sleep easy with the knowledge that the surly complainer is probably jealous – is still irritating.  

When you’re born with a little more than you need (or a lot more), you must be aware that your circumstances are, financially speaking, sometimes enviable.  Money doesn’t make people happy, but it makes them less worried about survival, which must lead to some increase in overall well-being.

Last year, I held a cushy 9-5 office job and got paid reasonably well for doing nothing.  I usually arrived five to 10 minutes late, took a lot of tea breaks, and played around on Facebook.  When it came time to work, I keyed numbers into a program and sorted invoices.

I hated it.

It made me want to die.

I hated the white walls and the blue carpet and the constant hum of the air conditioner.  I hated the shitty soft-rock on the radio and the swivel chairs and the loud conversations about nothing (most of which I probably started).  

Every afternoon I contemplated a nervous breakdown or a sudden heart-attack, anything that would promise some time off.  

I knew that I should’ve been grateful that I wasn’t serving coffee or bagging groceries or scrubbing bathrooms (all of which I’ve done, and one of which I do now), and I knew that most people thought I was lucky to have a “family business” to go to.  In fact, every time I complained about the rotten cesspool that was my decomposing brain, I’d often hear, “but you’re so lucky, I’d love to get paid for doing nothing.”

I’m telling all of you naysayers and doubters that you’re wrong.  

A promised position in a family company made me feel more useless and lazy than a barista or a grocery store cashier.  When you’re working with your hands and doing something for others, the lowness of your occupation compared to, like, the prime minister, doesn’t matter.  You’re busy, you’re working, and you’re getting something done.  You may not want to do it forever, but maybe it’s good enough for the time being.

When you’re sitting in a chair staring at a monitor with a bright blue screen and big yellow letters wearing stupid dress pants and ugly leather shoes (Stacy and Clinton would have died), you feel like a fat-assed, sedentary drain on the system.  A big speckled fish that sucks algae off the bottom of an expensive fish tank.

I wasn’t “lucky.”  I didn’t ask for that opportunity, I didn’t demand that the company make room for me.  But, since it was there and I was fresh out of school, I took the job.  I took it because it was easy, and because I didn’t have to work for it.

I think that, occupationally speaking, that was the worst year of my life.  Other great things happened, but while I sat in that building for eight hours, I felt nothing but disgust for myself.

It doesn’t really matter what you’re given.  You’re not lucky if you’re not happy, and sometimes fortune isn’t fortune at all if you’re better off without it.  

If you think you’ll be happier working in a bakery than at your mom’s law firm, then fill out that application.  Don’t let anyone tell you to appreciate the opportunity to make money while someone else vacuums the men’s aisle at Wal-Mart.  Sometimes, believe it or not, vacuuming is better than slouching over an old PC creeping Facebook all day.

Don’t feel guilty about “not appreciating a great opportunity.”  Monotony just kills the soul.

Oh Yes…

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!

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.

You’re All a Bunch of Dirty Hookers!

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.

I Live!

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.

 

 

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. 

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.

“Hello Darkness, My Old Friend”

Irrelevant blog title, but a cool one nonetheless. 

I’m at work. 

It’s snowing, which means I might get to to leave at 4:00 instead of 5:00. 

I had a latte this morning. 

All in all, it’s been a satisfactory day despite my tiredness.  I didn’t get to bed until 2:30 last night (or rather, this morning), but I was up for a good reason.  A sexy reason, if you will.  To put it more bluntly – for the confused and charmingly (perhaps cutely) slow-witted – I was kept awake by sex itself.  So I’m tired in a content kind of way, if that makes sense.

I haven’t much pontificating to do at the moment.  That’s not to say there’s nothing to pontificate about (there’s plenty), but I’m a little out of touch with issues of vast political importance.  I blame that on being out of school and having little inclination to read newspapers or watch TV.  This will pass, I assure you. 

I have job opportunities at the moment.  One will, I believe, work out.  The other probably wont.  I applied and was accepted to a seemingly competitive government internship program that, according to the organization’s website, I’m not supposed to talk about in great depth or detail.  It’s sort of like Fight Club, only less exciting – much less exciting. 

Anyways, I had to write an entrance exam last week and I feel ambivalent about it.  It probably went well, just not exceptionally well.  I can only hope that, to my surprise, I’ll have scored phenomenally high.  It took me so long to get there – and believe me, the journey was a perilous and difficult one – that I almost want to believe I’m fated to move up and on in the program.  I survived poor directions, wrong-turns, and crippling hopelessness to make it to the test centre with three - yes, three – minutes to spare.  I looked dishevelled, stressed, and shockingly under-dressed (there were a surprising number of people in suits), but I made it. 

Still, my hopes aren’t high.

I’ve applied to volunteer (yes, such a process does exist) at a fund-raising foundation at a hospital.  I’m looking at writing letters, annual reports, and blurbs.  I also expect to do some light research and make phone calls.  I’ll be gaining some experience working in public relations, which is good.  I won’t be paid for my efforts, but constructing a more recent, relevant and well-rounded portfolio is slightly more important than adding to my horribly meager condo fund. 

The radio station at work has been playing a lot of upbeat 60s music today.  Mindless, joyful stuff.  Not a bad thing to listen to in a sterile office, I don’t think.  Actually, I’ve had a soft spot in my heart for 60s pop since ending up at 60s night at a small, appealingly skanky bar several months back.  It was a surprisingly good night, even though nothing particularly memorable or exciting happened.  

Actually, I just thought about something of value to talk about. Unfortunately I have not the time to address the subject, which will require a longer and more thoughtful analysis than I’m at liberty to give at present.  I have lots of invoicing to do and only a half hour left to do it.

The topic is Discovery Channel health shows.  I watched several this past Sunday as I entertained the new-ish puppy (who’s an adorable, charming, satanic little monster). 

Perhaps I’ll discuss it later.  Like tomorrow, if the blogging mood strikes.

 I think this was the most unfocused entry I’ve ever written.  I blame the happy exhaustion. 

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.

Naked Pictures? Oh Boy!

I’d like to think that, if I were someone’s prospective employer, I’d accept that he or she has, like everyone else, a life beyond the office.  That life probably includes drinking and sex.  Most lives do – with some exceptions, of course.

 One must conduct him/herself with decorum while at work, but outside of it?  Activity that isn’t dangerous or illegal is none of my concern.  As an employer, you must ensure that your employees are meeting your company’s standards.  That’s the extent of your duties. 

I’m perplexed by the warnings I’ve received pertaining to my relatively quiet and generally obscure online playgrounds – namely this blog and my Facebook account.  I’ve heard tell several rumours that potential future bosses are probably Googling my name, looking for evidence of untoward behaviour that would make me a poor candidate for a job.  I’d understand them wanting to ensure that I’m not affiliated with a White Power or Neo-Nazi organization.  If they want to make sure that I don’t operate a website dedicated to illegal sexual proclivities – child molestation, bestiality, necrophilia – I get that, too. 

However, if someone were to stumble across a picture of me sitting on someone’s lap with a drink in my hand, I’d take issue with him or her deeming me an undesirable employee.  Most people – many of whom are employed – have engaged in informal behaviour, some of it less than austere (to say the least). 

But my opinion aside, the fact remains that employers can seek out background information not present on a job candidate’s resume and make a ”to hire/not to hire” decision based on their research.  While I may think it’s unwise to screen workers using Facebook, it happens.  Since that fact is clear – and out in the open – people must guard their privacy appropriately. 

If someone is passed over for a job due to scandalous Facebook/Myspace/Livejournal, etc photos, that person cannot blame the website on which his or her pictures were discovered.  All of the websites have “Friends Only” options that hide page content from casual surfers.  If you aren’t friends with your boss on Facebook, he or she cannot see your Cancun vacation pictures.  Nor can they see the people you’ve dated or hooked-up with (not that it’s their business or concern to begin with). 

If you want to blog and share pictures with your friends, take care to manage your privacy settings accordingly.  Don’t shriek that “Stalkbook” lost you your job.  Privacy settings – bless ‘em – were invented so you could casually socialize with people you know/trust.  If you choose to make your profiles public, you’ve chosen to subject yourself to unexpected (and perhaps unwanted) scrutiny by anonymous third-parties. 

Let me reiterate – I’d hire you despite your party pictures.  In fact, I might hire you because of them.  However, I’m not hiring anyone, so my principles matter very little in the grand scheme of things. 

Now, what to do when there are nude pictures of you kicking around cyberspace?  That’s a difficult subject to contend with, as there are ethical concerns associated with it.  Is it unfair to punish someone if the pictures were originally entrusted to another person who took advantage of said trust? Is it ethical to dismiss someone’s contributions to a company over photos taken outside (hopefully) of the workplace? 

Can you no longer trust an employee to work diligently and efficiently now that you’ve seen her nipples? Is a member of your team suddenly less helpful and intelligent because you’ve witnessed his (perhaps impressive or not-so-impressive) erection?

Nude photos are (for some people) a source of great shame and embarrassment.  The fact that anyone they pass on the street may have masturbated to (or laughed uproariously at) pictures of them is punishment enough – especially if the photos were distributed without his or her knowledge or consent (which is sometimes the case).

However, there are many instances where people have freely distributed photos or videos of themselves lounging around naked or performing sexual acts. 

What’s unfortunate is that, should these materials be found, people can lose the respect of their employers and co-workers, thus requiring a change of occupation.  If society were more open-minded about sex and nudity (not simultaneously averse to and obsessed with it), perhaps a naughty picture/video could be laughed about and – eventually – forgotten. 

However, in North America, a scandalous image could bury you personally and economically.  Or make you famous.  Or infamous, rather.  Regardless, it wouldn’t be the most desirable kind of fame, for few people would take you seriously (and no one dare argue that the media takes Paris Hilton seriously, she’s one of the biggest – and yes, richest – running jokes in contemporary pop culture).  

So what’s the best way to deal with less-than-appropriate photographs? 

Think about them before you take them – because seriously, someone might find them.  In a perfect world, their discovery wouldn’t be a huge deal.  In an imperfect world, well…you know how it is. 

Me?  If I felt compelled to do something salacious and immortalize it on film, I’d do it right.  No grainy images of me bent over a guard-rail.  No unflattering angles amplifying “problem” – re: fat – areas.  No tangled hair, no smeared make-up, no unsightly expressions.  And most of all – no poor lighting.

I’d go for something deliberately artsy (so I could decry people’s ignorance of fine art and the beauty of the unclothed human body).  The pictures would have to be black and white, or perhaps sepia-toned.  I’d look like I was freeing my mind and spirit, and indulging in the joys of creating subversive material meant not to shock, but rather engage and enlighten. 

People wouldn’t say, “Wow, look at that pale whore with a cock in her mouth.”

They’d say, “Wow, look at that daring couple with great taste in decor and a genuine, tangible passion for one another.”

They’d be titillated, yet enthralled.  Scandalized, yet impressed.  Aroused, but thoughtful. 

Should the masses disapprove of my taste in erotic art, I’d call them out on their closed-mindedness.  I’d discuss the unnecessary and oppressive taboos surrounding sex and nudity – taboos that damage sexual expression rather than refine it.  I’d claim that I was re-conceptualizing pornography, and infusing it with dignity and grace.

I’m 3/4 serious, here. 

If you’re going to do it, do it right.  Do it with class, and sensual ambiance.