Posted: August 28, 2014 in hidden admonishment

You don’t deserve most of the things you have.
You didn’t really earn them.
In fact, you’ve forgiven yourself for forcing people like me to shoulder your bullshit
and have even attempted to push my resentment of this mandatory burden off as nothing other than a character flaw I possess.

Yes, I may be flawed, but I own my flaws.

You’re a blind, selfish little pig who continues to cause others to suffer while you wallow in a false sense of satiety.
It doesn’t matter if you’ve forgiven yourself, because the comfort it provides is only important to you.
You really don’t give a shit about anyone except yourself, so why expect the people you fuck over to fucking care about you?

Enjoy your stuff.

the overachievers

Posted: August 26, 2014 in Uncategorized

I am a typical underachiever, preferring to keep a large amount of my time void of responsibilities and inactive.


Contrary to this, I have a relatively strong work ethic and find myself climbing when I have no intention to climb.  Working is one thing.  Attempting to get subordinates to work the same way is entirely another.

I dislike people.  I loathe shouldering the responsibilities of and for other people.  In this regard, I am not a leader.

Unlike the grand majority of my peers, and those in the generation following mine, I do not fancy myself a leader.  I do not prize the leadership role.  I have no fucking interest in trying to prod others.  I would much rather paint the fence myself than trick others into doing it for me, because I want to know that the fence is painted to my specifications in the most efficient way possible.  I want the fence painted, painted well, painted fast, and once it is painted, I want everyone else on the other side of the fence.

Go the fuck away.

Promotions are dropped at my feet, because I am a hard worker.  I’m given a task, and I do it as thoroughly and efficiently as possible, and then I come back for another task or I leave.  So, here’s an idea.  Let me work.  I am a worker ant.  Worker ants work.  I like to work, get shit done, and leave.  I have no fucking interest in trying to get others to work instead. 

Work stays at work.  Any time I am not paid for is mine.  All mine.

I do not want to socialize.  I do not care if we like each other or not.  I do not care about who you are or what you do outside of the construct of our intertwined jobs.  This is not my career.  I am not emotionally invested in this.  This does not make me a good candidate to move up in your business.  I do not work for the satisfaction of a job well done.  I do not work for a sense of purpose.  I do not work to contribute to something bigger than me.

I work so that I can sustain my free time.

What I do with my time is my business.  With most of it, I choose to do absolutely nothing.  I don’t need a promotion in order to achieve this free time.  I’m not asking you for a raise.  This isn’t a power play.  I’m telling you I’m fucking leaving, because you don’t understand that your bullshit is eating into my time.  Mine.  My precious free time.




Conversation I’m not sure I want to have later today:

“Hey coworker I’m on good terms with but don’t care for one way or the other. I know you’re eight months pregnant, but are you missing a pink and blue xanax/morphine cocktail? I only ask because I happened across one in my car, and…well…it’s not mine.”


Posted: June 6, 2014 in otiose

At my heaviest, I weighted 100kg (220lbs).
That was a long time ago.
At my least healthy, I weighed 58kg (128lbs).
That wasn’t quite as long ago, but it was still a long time ago.
I didn’t even want to lose that weight.
It crashed from 81kg (180lbs) in a year and I could see upper ribs
lower ribs
hip bones
It was just as gross as any extra rolls ever were.

I just didn’t fucking care.

My body has been through a lot, and the most unhealthy images are what stick with me.
At either extreme.

It’s a struggle to give a shit.

I don’t enjoy paying my bills anymore. I would rather take a four mile walk just to avoid doing it. I have been very diligent for the past…lifetime. I’ve paid them promptly and without too much scorn when I was homeless, and I’m not even on the cusp of financial ruin right now. I just don’t want to fucking pay my bills.

I’m still going to pay them. I still do. It’s not like it was ever an enjoyable task. “Enjoy” is the wrong word, but it held a certain sort of gratification. At least, I could tell myself, I was doing something tangible.

Everything gets muddled when I admit I give a shit about things outside of myself. I’m not striving for the same self-centered, albeit self-destructive, things I was a year or two ago. I’m also not convinced I genuinely care about where my life is drifting in lieu of former pursuits, so I’m essentially passively self-destructive at this point.

I know there’s a problem, but I don’t want to fucking deal with it. I don’t want to identify it. I don’t want to put in the work to find a solution. I don’t want to give a shit…

but I give a shit.

What the fuck do you know?

Posted: May 29, 2014 in otiose

I don’t know shit about shit.
I’m quick to admit it in this kind of confrontation.

Don’t make this about me.

In a pretty direct way, you’re right.
I wasn’t there.
I haven’t lived your life.
I’m not inside your head now.

I honestly don’t know shit about shit.

Is that enough of a reason to push me away?
Do you think you know everything there is to know about me?
Is it fucking necessary to know?

Why is this such a common issue with people?
Hey asshole, we’re all fucking damaged goods.
We’ve all had some kind of dark, ugly shit that pops up from time to time.

Talk about it or don’t.
Lose your shit once in a while, but don’t you fucking take it out on me
Expecting me to internalize it and spit out an airtight solution
to your fucking problems

because I don’t know shit about shit.

Yeah, okay.

Posted: May 9, 2014 in hidden admonishment

There’s nothing quite like waking up at 6:30 to a phone call wondering if it’s morning light or evening glaring in the southern exposure.
Cover for me…without enough notice to wash the vomit out of my hair. Yes, this is the professional edge everybody needs.

On lunch, major transgressions from the night before surface, stare me down, and offer up a dull, empty lack of feeling.
I really thought I’d passed these past…what is this shit anyway?

I know what it is.
I know exactly what the fuck it is.

Fishing around in old wounds looking for a reason not to make an emotional commitment.

Yeah, I still drag the shit around with me that hurts the most, but I really did foolishly think I’d successfully quarantined certain thought patterns that trigger bad habits.

Turns out I don’t trust you, so I fold back into what I know; missteps in trust. Personally historic events illustrating why I shouldn’t invest in unknown variables.

I like knowing that I can still walk away from this and look at it as nothing more than a good time, but that’s not fair, is it?