music vs me

i know most (if not all) people value music very highly. i’m not implying that i don’t, i just don’t see the big deal with the fact that i don’t. i value the artistic talent and dedication it takes to create music. i value the fact that i am able to hear and have this auditory experience. i value the lyrics and structure and mental images i get from music. but i don’t want to go to shows, concerts or talk about obscure musicians at your local bar. i don’t want to hear about how much you know about guitars, drums or bass playing. i don’t want to read your lyrics or dance. i don’t want your opinion on what you think i might like. i don’t want to talk about the musicians personal lives. i don’t like what you like (or at least not as much as you do). i like books (more than you do).

the way you feel about music is the way i feel about books. and because i don’t interrupt you while you’re talking about the latest movie to ask if you’ve ever read the book, don’t fucken interrupt me when i’m talking to bring up music. please. seriously. fuck off.

i like music. i don’t hate it. but it’s not my life. i’m not saying that one shouldn’t make it their life. they can, it’s nothing to me. but that’s just it. it’s nothing to me. i don’t tell you that i aspire to become a writer. that i have collection of short stories that i’m too embarrassed to share. i don’t torture you with my misspellings and fragmented ideas. why must you play your clumsy tune on your cheap guitar? why must you explain lyrics to me from a song that you like instead of using your own words? why do you assume that i care about it simply because you do?

i don’t go up to you and say “what’s your favorite book?” and stand there. and wait. searching your face and studying your clothes, reaching a conclusion before you answer just to see if i’ve got you pegged right. fine. books are different than cd’s. books are harder to relate to. books struggle to keep a reader interested. but i don’t douche all over music simply because i can’t relate to one or two songs (even here, i’m not upset with music i’m upset with music lovers). i don’t discard that whole method of expression simply because it’s “beyond me”. to those who do not like books; i am simply disappointed. and i can understand if those around me are disappointed to find that their passion for music is theirs alone. what i can’t understand is the bombardment of questions as to why. what i can’t tolerate is the feeling i get that i am somehow less of a person because i don’t/can’t connect with music as most people do. and even then, i’m told i just haven’t found that right song. or the right band.

but, i suppose in someways it’s fair. music lovers think i’m missing out on an experience and that’s how i feel about people who don’t read books. music lovers find that i am utterly uncool because i am not a musical zealot and i find most people who don’t read to be idiots. once they find out i bring nothing to the table of musical comparisons their shoulders slump and their mouths create an “o” shape. that’s what happens to me too when i find out people don’t read books. but the main difference is that when i want to get to know someone “what’s your favorite book?” is not one of the questions i ask. neither is “what’s your favorite music?”

these ideas that i’ve previously expressed is why i’m not working with a pretty well known band. i’m really not into their music now, but when i was a freshman in high school i listened to their first album which was pretty successful. i had an interview yesterday so that i might become their “go to” person about all things web. it was a miserable failure.

i interviewed in laguna beach at a studio with one of the bands’ many forms of management; mr. tull. well first of all, i was late; i couldn’t find a parking anywhere and i had to park in the post office next door in a slot which warned “20 min parking only”. i had to interrupt to ask if parking in the postal office would be a problem. he said it would and it took me ten minutes to move it. someone even honked at me while i was doing so, prompting larry to come outside. so now not only can i not follow directions (because he sent me a diagram as to where i should park though there was no parking there) i’m a terrible driver as well (not to mention my car was hideously filthy due to the recent rain). added to that, i always forget to smile. i tried my hardest to make sure he knew i was interested but i forgot to smile to remind him that i was also enjoying being interested. he mentioned a few times that the band was here in the studio and i nodded politely but never asked to meet them. he had to explain something to me twice because the manner in which he was describing things was so casual i was unaware he was actually talking about the job description. he mentioned that i was the first person to be interviewed for the job and that he liked my stuff. said that i seemed to be in tune with it, the music that is. then he asked me what kind of music i liked and what the last concert i had attended. well i said i like all music (but used the proverbial line “except country”) and that i don’t really go to concerts because i’m introverted and it’s too many people to be around. well. that sealed it. how could i possibly be responsible for following around a band, taking photos and updating sites for them (and their fans) if i’m misanthropic? suddenly he needed to explain to me that he was just starting the process (since i was the first person they’ve interviewed) and he’d let me know. he also informed me that the album won’t be out for another year so the position is not immediate. this caught me off gaurd and i was already walking out the door he held open when he asked me for my resume. i handed it to him, as well as one of my cards and said “well, if you change your mind-” and he quickly said “i’ll keep you in mind.” he walked me out and that was that.

i forgot to act enthusiastic. i forgot to tell him my strengths. i forgot to ask how much the pay was. i forgot to lie. i was honest and direct and i failed.

score:
music: 1 | me: 0

a solid quarter

march 9th was my birthday (25) and while it didn’t suck it wasn’t as fun as i hoped it would be. that’s what i get for hoping. my best friend came down to visit and brought three of his friends which we are trying to make into mutual friends. it’s difficult, especially with a four hour drive wedged between our efforts to connect. two family members, two co-workers and one ex-co-worker showed up. some with partner in tow but most without. we had plenty of beer, liquor, food, pot and wii entertainment. still there were moments when the entire apartment was silent. lets see, more than fifteen (15) people present at any given time and all you could hear was the tapping of my foot.

i was too inebriated to care. it was a disappointment. it still is. but the important part is that i can’t do anything about it either way. and it’s very unusual for me to let things go. but i’m trying. i’m trying to really feel like it doesn’t matter. that i tried my best and sometimes some people don’t mix. but it’s hard to believe that all those who were there are simply that different. i find it hard to accept that they couldn’t make conversation out of something. i find myself thinking that i should have gone around and kicked everyone in the shins so they could have at least one thing in common. obviously, i blame myself. i wasn’t drunk enough to be charismatic and i wasn’t stone enough to be witty. i was tired.

i cooked and bartended and tried, but i still failed. and what’s the big deal? (you might be wondering, whoever you are) well, the deal is that i don’t have friends. not what i consider to be friends. what i’m talking about is that group of people that are always around, always up to keeping company, always down to go to a party. you know, the regulars. the people that walk in and out of your apartment. the people that sleep on your couch. the people that create inside jokes. the people that like you despite the fact that you’re you. those people. the regulars. i don’t have that. and even though i’m in a very fulfilling relationship, i lack that. and sometimes i get lonely from this lack thereof.

so if you throw all these irregulars together (as i did) you get a dull party. you get people leaving early. not drinking. not smoking. not smiling. not talking. i didn’t get them drunk enough. high enough. they didn’t laugh enough. play enough. eat enough. something was missing.

i’d be lying if i said i wanted to know what it was. it’s not important. all these people won’t be together again. won’t remember each other. but more importantly they won’t remember the party either. somehow i can’t make it happen. then i think how i’ve tried to have fun in their elements when i was out of mine. i think how i really did try to make it work but they outnumbered me with their unexpected shyness. all the beer bottles, all the ashes, all the red eyes…they all add up to how it could have been better and this persistent confusion as to why it was not.

here we are again. this is why i’m trying to let things go. trying to really see that i can’t do anything. i could have done more perhaps, but i didn’t. now it’s time to think of something else. i wonder if there’s a name for people like me. people who hold grudges, don’t forgive and can’t let things go.

my boss once asked me if i was a hopeless romantic (this, during a conversation about getting a raise). i answered “do i look like it?” he said i did. i laughed then but maybe he was right. maybe it’s romantic to want a perfect night full of jokes and laughter. maybe it’s hopeless to strive for that. or maybe he just said that to make me mad and making (and keeping, more importantly) friends isn’t as difficult as i make it.

* * *

secondly; i had to borrow money from my parents. it was a very hard thing to do. my pride created a lump in my throat so large it was almost more than i could bear. of course my mother called it my birthday present (good call on her part) but it kept me up at night. even after smoking, drinking and coming. i feel as though i’ll never grow up. as though i’ll never earn enough to take care of myself without slinking back toward my parents. how can i support us when i can’t support me? i mean look at it; i have no friends and my parties suck.

but, i’m as healthy as any overweight person can be and my mental health is as good as extreme pessimism allows it to be. that’s looking on the bright side.

untitled. haha, just kidding.

look, my better half is out of town. from tuesday night to friday night, i will have to (have been?) coming back to an empty apartment. now there are several reasons i don’t want to come home.

there is nothing to eat. i hate fast food but now i’m eating it on a regular bases of once a day because i can’t cook.

there is shit all over the apartment. ok, not literal shit, just stuff, ok? relax. we don’t have pets, there’s just stuff. all over. my stuff. all over. and i just move it every time i need the space for something else.

i really do have to do everything. not just feel like i do everything. but actually do it. totally lame.

my point is that because i’m so helplessly alone i decided to visit a buddy (i say buddy but really he’s an acquaintance, i’ll get to that later). he’s the guy who quit (i mention it in my first entry, which is very strange…it was thursday and he quit and i was thinking about how shitty everything was because i couldn’t just up and quit. and today i started to feel the same. the same exact way. and i started to think that maybe thursdays aren’t good days for me. then i arrive at miguel’s apartment and he asks me when he quit. how the fuck would i fucken know?! i cried “oh! here, let me get my calender of what miguel does every fucken day!” but here’s the thing; i do know and i just realized it now. what a vagina i am.) anyway, he smokes a lot of pot but is now moving away and since he’s moving back into his parents house he can’t take any pieces with him. he has a three foot bong with all these i-can’t-remember accessories, a bubbler made by some guy (and his girlfriend) who is apparently very highly respected in the pot-loving community and a small pocket pipe.

i nearly bought the bong. i had the money, i was going to pick it up after work i even stopped by and waited while he finished smoking out of it. as he packed it lovingly into it’s velvety looking case he explained to me how to use it. we had agreed that for the bong, the extra piece that holds water and three bowls, i’d give him one hundred and fifty dollars ($150). i took out one sixty ($160) and when i got there, lied and said i had only one forty ($140) in my pocket. now, why do i do this? i have no fucken idea. it was so incredibly fun. he asked me repeatedly if that’s true and i always answered yes. i told him that i don’t like to haggle but i just arrive with less money and see what i get. that’s when he believed me and promptly declared that he would remove one of the bowls and call it even. (i was glad. i’m glad he didn’t just give in. yes, ok i tested him. i test everyone. all kinds of social experiments and observations. this is the only way i get to know people. anyone got any other suggestions? keep them to yourself, i’m not interested.) i tried to argue with him as he said that two bowls was enough because one was to use and the other was “just in case”. i tried to explain that one was to use and two where for “just in case”. he then proceeded to comment on how i’d probably break it and i shot back “well it’s mine isn’t it? after i pay you a it’s mine and i can do what i want. i can go outside and smash it and it would have been money well spent!” wow. muh-lish-uhs.

i backed out. he said “i’ve had that bong for four (4) years, and i’m just saying… don’t break it.” i backed out right then. i had to. he really had some emotional attachment to them and the first thing i said i’d do was smash it. smash it! for crying out loud! (louder!) i realized that i should have never even considered buying it. i had already thought of whether or not i’d feel bad if it broke. i came up with nothing more than thinking of the money i’d lost. you see, i’m very certain that in my care it would be broken. and all i ever thought of was the money involved (especially since i have bills, a student loan and rent to pay). when miguel said that, in all seriousness, i realized how sentimental i wasn’t. (aren’t.) i knew it would embarrass him, but i said it anyway; i simply told him i couldn’t take it because he was emotionally attached and i didn’t want to take his girls away from him. he scoffed and insisted it didn’t matter and he said many times “nah, i’m just saying”. but the honest truth is that i don’t respect that kind of attachment (unless it’s my own, you see). it was obvious that i didn’t respect it at all when i said i’d smash it all to hell. and yet he didn’t understand that he should not sell the piece to me. i had to catch my own evilness just to save myself from some petty regret. i explained later it was much like caring for a pet. you want to make sure they go to a good home and are treated well. but i simply couldn’t be certain that would be true. and i didn’t want the responsibility.

that is also why i don’t try new things, eat new foods or go to new places. things go wrong all the time, but i would never know because i spend a lot of time avoiding it. all i have to do is imagine a very realistic scenario and it might as well have happened because i feel just as terrible about it. this is how the mind of a worried person works. this is why i’m no fun. why i ruin conversations with inappropriately inaccurate facts.

i’m just selfish. i wanted the bong just to have it, not to use, just to beat the other people to it. i backed out because i wanted to save myself from mistreating some treasured piece of large glass and inevitably feeling sorry about it. and here it finally is; that is why it’s difficult to consider people friends. so. we’re acquaintances. someone called miguel and he mentioned that some girls were going to stop by and his other friends were stopping by with more smokage and his buddy parker was there and uh…..yeah…so we’re here.

he didn’t mention me. and i noticed. how can i blame him? i don’t call him a friend, how can he refer to me by name?

february 14th

what it means to me; nothing. i’m no going to waste time writing about valentines day.

ok, i lied. i am.

i’m sure a lot of people think that those who are against or get irritated by this holiday are those who are single. that’s not true. i’m not single. and i’m in love (or the closest i can be since some are so inclined to say i don’t know what it is). i just don’t like it. and it’s not for the usual jaded reasons that it’s a sham holiday made for candy company and card makers.

i dislike valentine’s day because to me it says you can be a shit companion (husband, wife, boyfriend, girlfriend, etc) 364 days a year, but valentine’s day is the day you show you’re true love. and if you don’t show your true love then you don’t really love at all then, do you? it’s a day where your emotions are measured by money, candy and jewelery.

sure buy your wife (girlfriend, fiancée, etc) candy (or take her out to an expensive dinner), so that when she gains weight you won’t love her anymore. the year after that buy her some lingerie which she won’t wear because she’s fat. then you’re not gonna get laid. so the year after that make sure you use valentines day to have sex because your wife is too fat for your liking now and you just wish she would work out and take care of herself and fit into that teddy you got her so you can get a blowjob from a hot woman. on the other hand, if your wife doesn’t like candy, get jewelery (unless she’s gained too much weight and the petite little rings don’t fit anymore). but if her fingers are still just right, a diamond never goes out of style. it may be costly but rest assured that you’re paying for not having to dig for the damned stone yourself! how many countless third world country miners (of all ages) have died and suffered oppression and occupation for that precious rock? or if gaining from others misery is not your style, get her a stuffed animal (sweat shop workers do have it better than third world miners). make sure it’s really corny and she would never have a use for it and would never buy it for herself. or, i’ll be damned if i forgot, flowers! sure thing; cheap, plentiful and good smelling. she’ll be delighted you thought to buy her such a temporary gift. something she has to care for everyday just like she does for you (and your kids if you have ‘em). and when the flowers die they’ll be discarded with nothing but memories to last. just like she’ll do for you. not bad for ten bucks, hey?

or

get you husband (boyfriend, fiancé, etc) something totally mushy and unnecessary (and annoying), like a card. or make a nice candle light dinner, because you know it’s not like you cook most of the time anyway and doesn’t everyone like candles? or better yet, have your man help you make dinner; there’s nothing like sharing chores after a long days’ work. and you can even have him help with the cleaning! how romantic would that be? and if he doesn’t want to do that, i’m sure he’d appreciate a nice, quiet, relaxing night watching a romantic movie. or do him a favor and watch a romantic comedy because you know he likes comedy, right? he would totally appreciate sitting through some sappy love story all the while being aware that he’s not living up to that standard. but wait! he might appreciate a nice gesture. like the gesture of a mouth on a penis. but then his stomach gets in the way because he’s eaten too much over all these other valentines, and your mouth is dry and suddenly…what’s this? has it actually gotten…smaller?! if dinner and a blow job won’t work, try something you would get him at any other occasion, like tools, bbq accessories, cologne, etc. because you know he can always be fixing something he’s ignored (usually the things you use the most). or he could easily be cooking just as much as you do and he even gets to be outside (instead of the kitchen which needs a new refrigerator and the cabinets are hanging on by their eroding hinges). or he can always try a little harder to smell good (but anything other than his current body odor would be an improvement). but, if all else fails, buy him a prostitute.

if you don’t at least try to make it a happy and romantic day as proof of everlasting love then you just don’t know what love is. you don’t know the joy and happiness that comes when you think you’ve done right but you haven’t. you have no idea how great it is to spend money on a huge stuffed animal just to see it occupy most of the space in a dumpster . how great is that feeling to find that you don’t fit into that lingerie anymore? or that eating candy from heart shaped box makes you think of how fat you are rather than how much someone will love you no matter what?

fine. maybe i don’t know what love is. but i do know it doesn’t just happen on one day of the year.

ketchup

friday (the 8th) some fucken old lady rear ended me.

i was running late (of course); i woke up late and had to gas up. i was waiting at the light. really just thinking nothing and looking out the window. it’s been hot lately. so i had the window down and the music up. then my car is shaking. my head is shaking. my vision is blurred. i look straight in front of me and see that my car is sliding forward. my car is a standard transmission 2001 economy car (no i won’t tell you what make or brand. who cares) and when that old lady hit me my foot slid off the clutch (and brake) effectively granny clutching (stalling) my car. it’s harder to brake when my car is off, not to mention that since it’s standard (and economic) the brake petal is not wide enough to place both feet on it. so yes. i hit the person in front of me. i tried to brake but just couldn’t exert enough pressure quickly enough to make a difference. looking in the rear view mirror i see someone with both hands on their face shaking their head. now i couldn’t see for certain that it was a woman but only a woman (or an overly emotional man) would react that way.

so this lady lady ran into me and i ran into the woman in front of me. the woman i hit appeared to be vietnamese (does that matter? no, other than it seemed to be the main reason she didn’t understand what i was saying) and did not speak much other to say “i’m ok. yeah. ok.” my car didn’t damage her car but in hitting her i bent my license plate and broke the frame (which i was secretly glad about, because it sported the school which i am indebted to and absolutely despise). there are a few scratches on the front but nothing to scream about. the back bumper is scratched and dented. well, to be accurate it’s difficult to dent a bumper that seems to be made of plastic, so actually the damage looks more like a small piece was pushed in until it broke. that’s what happened. end of story.

am i going to fix it? no. am i going to go after this damned old lady? no. but you know, when i got out of my car and walked over to her, thinking, but unsure about what i was going to say, she asks “are you okay?” and i stopped. dead in my tracks. it hadn’t occurred to me to ask anyone if they were ok. i was only interested in finding out what hell happened and why. after exchanging information (i specifically asked her to get her insurance information and she walked back the car quickly but came back empty handed) i just didn’t care anymore. she tried to say at this point (after the vietnamese lady left) that the scratches where already there. now i know my car isn’t the best car, the cleanest car or the most scratch-free car but i still love her (my car, yes, is a girl). and when she said that my anger flared up and i decided that i might make her pay for it after all. my voice hardened and i said “no dude, those scratches were not there. you did that. you hit me pretty hard. i’ll be calling you.” fucken shit man! trying to weasel out of it! damn, man! she’s old, she should know better. action – reaction. it never changes. anyway, she looked at me and knew what i meant. she shrugged and said “well, whatever”.

you know, i don’t hate old people. i just hate the general stubbornness of not knowing when enough is enough. i’m not saying “lay down and die, you old fogey.” i am saying, however, if you can’t do something because of your body deterioration, don’t goddamned do it. i’m not just talking about old people. i’m saying anyone; if you don’t want to let your limitations get you down, fine. that’s admirable. but if it means that you have to essentially hurt other people to surmount your own personal struggles then no. let it be.

i’m not going after the old lady. it’s like you’d do as a poor kid; decide if it’s bad enough to go to the doctor and when you discover that the time and money costs more than a scar would, you quickly make a decision. after a short internal struggle i decided that wouldn’t unless it affects the way my car functions. if there had been (or is) internal damage, or something more severe then i would have no choice (seeing as how this is my only form of transportation). the only other circumstance is if the woman i hit comes after me. that’s the only uncertainty. it’s been almost a week and susie (my car) is fine. just a scratch. and a dent…hole…thing.

of course my mother (eeeik! eeik!) insists that i go after her. i explained to her that i was not going to do simply because she insisted. i explained patiently (which is unusual, if you know me) that when she becomes an old lady and rear ends someone, i’d hope the person she hit would not come after her. she in turn pointed out that as an adult one must be aware of their actions and accept the consequences (though, i’m afraid, she was a little less eloquent and punctuated each breath with profanity). i agreed, but still declined to take that route. i did offer her the opportunity to pursue the matter if she liked. she whined “that’s not the way it’s supposed to work!”

now i think she was so vehement because i wasn’t. usually i am. usually i tear around, cursing and fuming about things gone wrong. cursing everything (and sometimes everyone) around me because somehow it is beyond my control to go through one day in which nothing disastrous occurs. i’d curse the heavens if i thought there was someone up there to be offended.

well.

it’s starting. now we start with gaps in my blog. i didn’t write one yesterday (though i wanted to) because i left work early and when i go home i don’t want to be in front of the computer anymore. yes; i do spend work time writing this and right now i’m seeing floaters and my left hand was a little numb earlier so i think i’m due for a migraine. that means i’m going to stay late today (though i am at a real risk of a migraine, i can feel it) because i didn’t stay yesterday just because i was in a fucked up mood. now that i’m really sick…well. that’ll teach me.

i’m upset with myself for leaving early. it was a pussy thing to do. i could (should) have toughed it out and worked the extra four hours to get a full day (because i’m hourly, you know) but i was too pissed. this is the third week for my second part time job and i still don’t have my own work station. i’m not talking about my own office with a phone and special trash can. i’m saying i’m having to jump from computer to computer depending on who is out. my files are getting fucked up and depending on where i land, on any given day, the programs that are available to me change versions or are simply nonexistent. my boss was out and when he stepped in i just said i was sick and going home.

i could have toughed it out but i didn’t. and the way i add it up is that i just spent sixty four dollars. i guess it was worth it; i did have fun. i was able to be home before the sun set and enjoy most of the day under the influence (of what? you may ask. well i’m not telling you. does it matter? i’m functional. rational. healthy. does it matter if i was drunk, high or hallucinating?). i think it was sixty four dollars well spent. and i try not to worry about the money i lost, but rather the time i gained. in doing this i begin to hate work. both this new job and the old one.

i work the “old job” monday and tuesday and then this “new job” the rest of the week. it doesn’t matter what i do. i work in cold warehouse-like environments contributing nothing to anyone. i work to contribute money to myself. is there any other reason? my old job is barely bearable (they’re coming to take me away haha!). this new job gives me headaches. and i begin to wish i could be an artist or a writer or …shit, anyone who doesn’t have to go by the clock every week day. i chalk it up to the fact that i’m not creative enough. motivated enough. smart enough. but i don’t know what it really is. is there even anything else that it could be?

it’s just the general (and normal) feelings of inadequacy and bitterness. it’s just my envious eyes poisoning my brain. it’s just the world that broke my heart. but here i am. walking around. looking for jobs. being a good consumer. going through the motions as if my heart weren’t broken. as if all these realities that crushed it to begin with somehow were really only cracks and that i might still have a heart to break.

foolishness. all of it.

here’s the thing;

i’m angry. nothing happened. no one said anything. i just woke up frustrated. i wake up this way most mornings and i walk around straining to keep in my acidic comments least they burn someone too deeply. still … ok well i’m not originally from southern california (i’m from central california) and besides some choice vernacular (hella vs nicccceee! (note: these are not interchangeable)) and driving habits (stopping at green lights due to traffic and speeding through yellow and red lights) i’ve noticed that southern californians are very sensitive. touchy. emotional. at least more than the farmers in central california are.

my dry humor and abrasive sarcasm does not go over well here. and i’m beginning to think i’m far too angry to be a californian at all. i’d probably be better suited…somewhere else… (though my attitude, quick temper and loud mouth might get me killed. not to mention the fact that i don’t know how to fight because i do it with my words. my idea is that if you bark loud enough, no one will want to know what your bite is like.) anyway, i like to curse. a lot. i mean if it’s not bullshit then it’s all kinds of fucked up. who cares? i have a real liking for words and literature and find them both to be important. but all words, not just the pretty ones.

but i digress. i don’t trust people. i generally dislike almost everyone i meet. i don’t like kids. i don’t like to be bothered with questions like “what time is it?” i mean i’m really just pissed at people for just being around me most of the time. and it makes me say funny things. i don’t mean funny weird, i mean funny haha. but no one gets it. and i’m starting to think no one gets it because deep down inside i’m not californian. i’m like some other people who aren’t californian. it’s not that i don’t belong, it’s that californians are so emotional. always caring and apologizing and getting into people’s shit. the humor that i have stems from a serious case of lazy misanthropy but it is still humor…albeit, a little cruel, but funny none the less.

i only want certain people to get in my shit and most people aren’t invited. but beware! if you are invited you are privileged and cursed. because i value my secrets and if you betray me…well…ask my grandfather. don’t worry. i didn’t beat him or anything violent like that. i’ve simply cut him out of my life after discovering how he satisfied his needs with the help of one of his daughters. if he was dying and begging on the street i would pass him by. the most i can do is be apathetic and unfortunately for him i do it quite well.

super bowl who?

i wanted to write something everyday since i started this but i was hungover yesterday. even so, i made the effort to visit my cousin in san marcos (mostly out of obligation because they came up to orange county to see me a few weeks before). he and his wife were throwing a super bowl party so i arrived around 2pm and left minutes before the game started. who fucken cares? i don’t even understand the damned sport. it ain’t my style, man. to expect me to subject myself to this kind of widely supported spectator sport simply because everyone else does is insane. i only see it as a difference of taste. but most people think there is something obviously wrong with you, as a human being (as an american!) if you don’t like the game. or worse; don’t care either way.

saturday i was very drunk. i haven’t drank that much in over a year. i did spend most of sunday hungover and reminiscing about things i don’t remember. but i was quite the happy drunk (or so i hear). and i was being quite close (sharing pizza and drinks and germs and probably eating like a starved pig) with a co-worker who luckily is non-judgmental. this is all good. usually i am mean spirited, picking fights and pushing people around. this time i was just slobbery and hungry. i didn’t realize how much so until i picked up my sweater and noticed a lot of pizza sauce on it.

whatever. i did worry most of the day as to whether i did anything inappropriate but there is no one to tell me (because my co-worker is too nice to be honest). i’ll just have to assume i didn’t and if i did…well i wouldn’t know it anyway.

groundhog day

i realized last night that tomorrow (today) is ground hog day. i only realized this because i was watching the movie groundhog day. which i find to be a very sentimental movie though many people find it to be spiritual (which i suppose it is, but that just ain’t my bag). i like some of the dark aspects of it, and some parts still get me to laugh (like when larry the camera guy says in a shaky voice to phil (murray’s character) “you’ve touched me, man”, it’s hilarious because he’s so damned emotional). overall i like the movie ok but i got to thinking about why phil the weather man had to change. ok, he was sarcastic. mean. jaded. so what? that about sums it up for me.

i suppose he did have to better himself because he wanted to be loved. but shouldn’t people be loved just for being themselves and not having to change? if you’re a pshyco killer who likes to devour children then maybe you ought to change your ways. that’s no good for anyone. but where do all these positive people get off telling us pessimistic people how to be? do i go around telling these optimistic jerks “hey, you’re smiling too much. why don’t you ease up on it?” no. i don’t do that. but it’s ok for people who are happy, who aren’t sardonic, to go around imposing their ways of life and perspectives on me. it’s ok for someone to ask me “why don’t you smile more?” but it’s not ok for me to say “why don’t you smile less?” am i the only person cynical enough to see this as unfair?

probably.

and what’s with rita not having to earn phils love? he has to be this perfectly happy, artistic, versatile, romantic human being and all she has to do is be her natural girly self? well, excuse-fucken-me! some of us aren’t born fucken perfect with happiness and sunshine radiating from our anus. she’s cute and all (just like the people who she represnts in real life usually are) but i think she could use some work. she falls for all the sappy romantic stuff phil conners does when he is being genuine. she’s soft spoken. she’s easily pleased and silly. she’s got this frizzy hair. and what’s with the vest? i’m not saying she’s not my ideal girl, i’m saying the problem is that she is everyone’s ideal girl. where’s the fun in that?

the world may be a better place with people like rita and the newly changed phil conners occupying every corner of the earth. it may be a happier place. but the fact remains that sarcasm is funny. and the world wouldn’t be a funny place.

one month later

i know it’s feburary, but i’m starting my new year now. i got a new job (and i should be working) but i also kept my old job. so i’m working both jobs part time to keep a full time paycheck. yesterday a co-worker quit and when i return on monday i won’t have the usual song and dance of verbal abuse and profanity to look forward to. it actually made me sad in more ways than one. (i remind myself of citizen kane. the way he wanted to be loved but in return only gave people what he could buy. i want to be liked by all above everyone and all i give in return is my company. kane had money. i don’t. all i got is me. not love. i just want to be loved but not have to love back in return. that shit is too painful and usually not worth it) i am stuck working any job that i can get because i’m not educated enough (though i went to college and have a bachelors of science in web and multimedia design (and i don’t even understand enough to edit my own template) i have nothing to show for it). i’m only educated enough to know that i’m trapped.

i read an article the other day about how joy can be bad for you, because when you have everything you want you don’t strive for more. i guess that’s why i’m so miserable. so that i can earn the joy that will eventually make me stop wanting to be better. maybe the idea is that when you reach what you perceive to be “as good as it gets” you just accept it.

whatthefuckever.

brings me back to miguel. he’s the guy who quit yesterday and in doing so made my envy nearly consume me (hyperbole? i dot that a lot). it’s true. all true. of course i act stoic and act like his absence doesn’t matter to me, but if my life were a book (or movie, be thankful it isn’t because it’d be more boring than this blog) he would (does?) symbolize a kind of freedom that i don’t have. and won’t ever have. i am tied down to my jobs that will (if hope is a method) pay off my student loans (fuck fuck fuck) which will follow me around the rest of my dismal life (and work history) as a reminder that i made a mistake which has ruined my life (ok, that’s dramatic, but it’s significantly ruined my over all mood that i live life in). he’s gone. moving away, leaving the shit job behind which i will drive to on monday morning. i hate to say it and sound overly emotional, but it was more bearable with him there. and now the empty seat will just remind me that though i have a college education and am thousands of dollars in debt that i was still sitting next to a pot smoking high school dropout who made eight (8!) dollars more than i do. it’s not that i think less of him (i don’t. i admire that, in fact. that he was able to do better by not following the rules). we’re lead to believe that if we work had we will be rewarded. who’s doing the rewarding? i’m due for a reward. aren’t you?

what’s the use anyway? i chose this path. i just didn’t realize it was the wrong one. i’ve hit a brick wall and now i’m supposed to believe that if i try hard enough to get over it (or find a way around) that i’ll be ok. i think the problem is that i do believe there is a way around. or over. the problem is that i want that to be true.

i have to remind myself that my problems are not the greatest. that there are people in worse situations out there (just as there people in better situations). i have to remind myself that i am normal; no better than you. or him. that my problems are few. that i complain to hear myself talk. or to read what i’ve written. i have to remind myself that it could be worse. and well. though i’m glad it isn’t, i tend to forget that from day to day.

i’m lower middle class. i’m desperate. i own things. i get stuck in traffic. i drink. i read. i lie.

i’m normal.