The coverage of a foreign democratic revolution doesn’t interest me much.

Posted: February 9, 2011 in otiose
Tags: , , ,

It’s not because I don’t care about history: life, the universe and everything.

Never mind.
Inbox from the Washington Post:

“Rep. Christopher Lee (R-N.Y.) abruptly announced his resignation Wednesday evening after the gossip Web site Gawker reported that the married congressman had sent a shirtless photo of himself to a woman he met on Craigslist.”

Yeah, okay.
I’ve never met anyone worth a damn on Craigslist either.
Not the point, I’m sure.

Let’s have a daily race to see who can get drunk quickest and stray drunk longest. That’s how I’m going to get through my life.

Booky and Ugly Foot are constantly talking about McMansions. I think they’re planning on moving into one shortly. I’m not much into that. Even if I had money, made money, or suddenly magically came into money, the furthest I would go as far as the comfort of my dwelling would go is to be able to live alone without renting a hole in the wall that bestows bedbugs upon me again.

I hate my housemates. I thought I was indifferent, and I may not have enough energy to properly hate them, but I sure don’t like them. So, what else is new?

My parents are coming to make me feel even more like a failure early next week…right after the circus (which I’m going to on my only day off). I was supposed to get Monday and Tuesday off. I asked for it. My request was acknowledged…and then ignored. I work six day weeks, because the new girl is a pain in my ass and I have to cover all of the shit she doesn’t do, does wrong, and thinks she does. She got four days off this week. Four. In a row. Why don’t I just work the fucking job solo at this rate? I don’t want the job anymore. I just…want to get through the next two weeks, and then I’ll do whatever song and dance I need to do to get something else…that’s just a different flavor of shitty.

It’s been a year, and I’ve hit that wall. I rarely hold a job for longer without some kind of drastic overhaul. The slaughterhouse gave me a $1.50 raise to keep me, and the truck stop had to keep nudging up the pay, too…and I changed majors during college twice, picked up and dropped three different minors, “medically withdrew” and became emotionally attached to the emotionally unavailable to get through. I liked my first job, but only because it got my mom to shut the fuck up and gave me an excuse not to partake in the bullshit aftereffects of high school. “No, I couldn’t go to your retarded drinking party in the middle of a corn field even if I wanted to, because I have to work.”

I don’t know what to do. I get angry. My boss will ask me what I ate for lunch. Who the fuck cares and what business is it of yours? I used to answer fun things: cous cous, chinese pancakes, curry…things I eat sometimes, but not for lunch. Now I don’t bother. “Nothing,” is my response.
“You should eat something.”
“Probably.”
“Why don’t you eat anything?”
“Too lazy to care.”
“That’s why there’s…McDonald’s.”
No, you won’t catch me there unless they hire me on the night shift. I have a healthy fear of all fast food restaurants…and most “higher end” restaurants. Public. All places where people gather…but restaurants are toward the top of the list.

I’ve been in back. I’ve seen the cooks. Even the high end sushi joint’s where I can’t afford to be seated…The cook is just a drug addict with some fucked up God complex. I’ve slept at his house in his “non-girlfriend’s” bed, and “non-girlfriend” because they’re in some fucked up open relationship akin to those commonly found in cults, and they’re so fucked up and strung out that they’re “open minded” enough not to bog down life with labels…but they hold square jobs and judge everyone and live together and fuck in the bed I’ve found myself sleeping in. I know. I don’t want to eat the food they prepare. I don’t want to pay their rent or their dealer. I don’t want my life to intertwine with them anymore…even if by some off chance, that busboy stealing the waitress’s tips is completely normal.

And then there’s that obnoxious question that the “special” masses of “individualist” dipshits express: “What’s normal?” You are, you worthless fuck. You’re as normal and lackluster as they come with your trendy trendwhoring bullshit.

Obviously, I don’t want to share any of these thoughts with my bosses when they ask what I had for lunch.
They think I’m some sort of innocent adult child that’s never broken a law or a nose or heart or an ego…and I want them to think it.
I’m just awkward and shy to them, and that’s fine by me.
For some reason, they think my parents are wealthy, and that I am secretly wealthy, too.
Maybe this is because I don’t cash my paychecks ten minutes after receiving them.
I have a degree that I don’t even indicate wanting to use, and I came all the way down here to get another one.

I hate money.

I must not respond to it the way I’m supposed to.
People in college thought I was rich, too…and they were mostly rich. Even the poorest of them were ten times better off than I’ve ever been.
Well, no. I’m sorry. I’m not an annoying romantic trustfund baby that wants to interact with lower classes to write a “digital book” about it later.
No.
I’m poor, and for the most part, I don’t mind being poor…although I despise Wells Fargo and get sick of beans and rice.
My parents guilt me constantly, so I don’t like to spend time with them.
Who wants to be reminded of what a disappointment they are to the average standard all the fucking time? Who wants to shoulder that weight? What the fuck for?
I don’t like that they come halfway across the country to check up on me out of love.
I’m not even sure I want them to love me if I’m so goddamned disappointing.

No, Mom. I’m still a fuck up. I’m always going to be a fuck up. You’re going to die worrying about me, because I’m not going to amass money and get married and live in a McMansion with a booky and pop out babies with ugly feet that aspire to live for more money.
I’m never going to be that brand of happy.
You got it right the first time. My rivalry is great for all that shit. Cut your losses. I couldn’t make it work for me.

Kudos to Egypt for letting it get so bad that some attempt at change is being broadcast?
Red Rover, Red Rover…
Never mind.

I need a fucking drink.

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