Of course I was hired because she was of the opinion that having spent some time in the real world I would be more appreciative of the nature of the job than would someone who had just graduated.
I
can finish this all today. But Band of Brothers is apparently on the History channel and I'm running through Ogre Battle 64 again.
I'm trying to write this because I ran into something I wrote but never posted and realized that I don't and will not remember everything. Great swaths of my life will flicker out and go dark in my head as I age, and who knows what neat things are lost to casual retrieval. But then of course I hate every single thing I've ever written here. Is that really how I experienced those events, my thoughts on them? What about other things, surely it was other things I found important, even though I didn't write about them.
I often find my performance unacceptable. But not now?
sō na-n-su
I feel as if I should explain what I have been about these past two years but I don't want to. I'd much rather complete this post without acknowledging I've been gone at all, just act like nothing's happened.
Off to a poor start, there, but I shall struggle on.
They tell me that someone with my qualifications can't get much employment these days outside of sales. I have come to understand I hate sales.
When I did sales, I thought that the reason I felt the way I did everyday when I was waiting to go into work was that I had fundamentally damaged myself, that now I would feel this way about anything that I did, and that any change could actually make it worse.
Not once was there a day I didn't feel a little sick. Not helping was the fact that doing my job well was no source of pride or satisfaction.
It's clear to me now that I am pretty sensitive. Irritating, since my perception was that I was more thickly skinned that average, but this is not the case, or at least not when it comes to that sort of interpersonal interaction.
I am pretty pleased to announce that what I was experiencing was Working a Shit Job, so now I've an appropriate file heading for that whole mess and I can and have neatly tucked that away somewhere.
Maybe I actually want to forget the whole thing, such that two years from now I'll barely be able to recall anything. I keep going on about it right now because it wasn't even nine weeks past that I left and I've just been so happy to be gone I've shoved the whole thing aside to look out the window and not properly done all the mental paperwork necessary to get that jazz the hell out my inbox and into a carboard box sealed with masking tape on a shelf in a dark room in the basement.
Of my mind.
I'm sure what held your attention about that boondoggle of a paragraph was the odd measure of time. That was brought to you by a litter of kittens that my apartment has come down with.
Does anyone want any kittens? They haven't had their shots and they like to claw things.
One of my roommates and his girlfriend campaigned to lure a succession of feral cats into our home, for pretty vague reasons. Ostensibly to trap and sterilize them, I believe, but they never did get around to that second part and in the case of the last one it was we who, in the end, were trapped.
That's a clever cat, but she forced their hand; her tubes are tied and her kittens were taken away and now she spends her days constantly wandering in circles around our apartment crying at the entrances and then the exits. Her children run wild while everyone we collectively know expresses interest in making us believe that they would take one.
We're keeping one. I'm going to miss the rest.
I should call my dad more.
I'm not angry at my dad anymore, by the way. That was a nice thing to grow out of I have to say.
What's something else I've grown out of?
Anyways, I'm not particularly a success these days but even so I still don't get the hate for Real Life. Well, I get it, I'm actually pretty skilled at empathy, but I'm not experiencing it.
Possibly I'll look back and cringe at that statement. In fact I already am, for myself in the future, and I'm also flinching at that. I can't write in a straight line to save my life, fantastic.
The military keeps sliding into my thougts. Mostly I think because I believe that it would cure my directionlessness.
But that's not true, is it? Unless I made it a career.
I want the work done for me. The work of living my life.
I'm not sad, just sort of clueless and a little stir-crazy.
Sometimes I feel bad when my dad asks me what my dreams are and I have to make something up.
I don't really have any dreams, or at least nothing that seems grand enough to share.
Furniture seems nice. I don't have any but an old bed and a loaned desk.
And a dresser.
But I am out of debt again. I fell back into it pretty quickly, and far deeper.
I didn't get myself out.
What am I doing here? I don't write so much as leak all over the place. Inevitably everything around the bottom gets soaked.
I want to remember parts of my life, even if it's just a drop of nothing in a sea of it.
Already I'm cringing.
