Roll. Roll. Roll is za hay.
It’s an addiction when I hit the personals before I hit Livejournal. Will it ever end?
I’m staring at that job posting... reading through it and with each sentence telling myself "No, you can’t do that. You’re not smart enough to do that. You’re too moody to do that." The depths at which I put myself and my abilities down is the stuff self-help books are written to fix (and never do). For all I know the job could be as laid back and dull as this one. Or, it could be an actual, real job and I’ll be in a daze with inability to actually work. I was a good employee once. I did try. Now, I don’t know what I am.
Then I think about The Man. Or, more generally, that I just don’t want to work in environments anymore where I am expected to give and give and give for someone else’s vision. I need a paycheck, but it doesn’t seem worth it. Maybe I’d want to try harder if I worked somewhere that made me feel I had value to them.
I’ll never know unless I send that resume.
Nothing much else is happening. The hours I am keeping right now are one of the biggest motivators to get the hell out of here. I feel like I have two days to myself a week and the rest are a blur of insomnia and lethargy. I try getting to bed early, but it never happens. A person my age can’t survive on six hours a sleep a night. I’m so freakin burnt out.
Almost as difficult as submitting that resume is me making a damned haircut appointment. I’m hoping he has something Saturday morning. My mop has gotta get chopped.
In lieu of spending another journal entry bitching, I neglected to tell the tale of my El ride home Tuesday. Somewhere around State and Lake this lesbian-looking Goth girl got on the train and sat towards the middle of the car. Dyed black hair. Tattoos on her arms. Tight black shirt on her petite, yet blobular body. And, she proceeded to yak on her cellphone from that stop ALL the way to mine at Irving. Yak Yak Yak Yak Yak Yak Yak. I felt so bad for the poor bastard who was sitting across from her trying to read his book on Zen. I was at the end of the car WITH headphones cranked and I could still hear the shrill, penetrating annoyance of her incessant voice.
I imagined myself getting up and just jacking her right in the face as hard as I could. Wondering how funny it would be to just have someone do something like that on the train to some unsuspecting fat bitch who can’t be courteous to the rest of the people on the train. I even imagined after punching her, and lodging my fist in her face, with broken teeth falling and blood splattering, that everyone in the car would stand up and applaud me. Or, better yet, smack the phone out the door when the train stopped and kick her ass out onto the platform just as the doors close.
Fucking cunt.
Another hot boy on the train this morning. This one had a really big nose and seemed to be sweating and self-conscious about it. Washington and Wells seems to be THE place to get off the train if you’re hot. I spent more time being annoyed with the fact there was a Green Line car attached to my Brown Line train, and I was in it. The different lines all have different kinds of cars, and I just like my Brown Line cars.
I miss summer. I know it actually IS summer, but I miss summer feeling like a different time of year and actually have distinct differences that were enjoyable. Work sucks.
Not that I require it because I can do just fine on my own, but ever since Jennifer left, my dad has not been able to give me a lift once. It could be a coincidence, or it could be the Universe again fucking with me and saying ’Ha ha ha you directionless twit. Sweat your balls off because YOU my friend are walking!’... and, it has been fucking hot out there too. Yesterday I was praying for the rain storm to start up, because I could see it lingering in the skies. The air was so thick with humidity you could do a Scooby Doo number and cut it with a knife.
My new Thoreau book is unfortunately boring the hell out of me. The problem started with the Editor and his introduction that went on and on for pages and pages. I got so tired of his yammering that I just skipped ahead and found myself completely disillusioned with the actual text. I don’t think I am in the mood right now for Transcendentalist opinion. I feel like reading more fiction.
Had a dream last night that I got two tickets to see Josh Groban. It was a happy dream. No monsters chasing me. No murders trying to kill me. A nice, pleasant dream.
I’m staring at that job posting... reading through it and with each sentence telling myself "No, you can’t do that. You’re not smart enough to do that. You’re too moody to do that." The depths at which I put myself and my abilities down is the stuff self-help books are written to fix (and never do). For all I know the job could be as laid back and dull as this one. Or, it could be an actual, real job and I’ll be in a daze with inability to actually work. I was a good employee once. I did try. Now, I don’t know what I am.
Then I think about The Man. Or, more generally, that I just don’t want to work in environments anymore where I am expected to give and give and give for someone else’s vision. I need a paycheck, but it doesn’t seem worth it. Maybe I’d want to try harder if I worked somewhere that made me feel I had value to them.
I’ll never know unless I send that resume.
Nothing much else is happening. The hours I am keeping right now are one of the biggest motivators to get the hell out of here. I feel like I have two days to myself a week and the rest are a blur of insomnia and lethargy. I try getting to bed early, but it never happens. A person my age can’t survive on six hours a sleep a night. I’m so freakin burnt out.
Almost as difficult as submitting that resume is me making a damned haircut appointment. I’m hoping he has something Saturday morning. My mop has gotta get chopped.
In lieu of spending another journal entry bitching, I neglected to tell the tale of my El ride home Tuesday. Somewhere around State and Lake this lesbian-looking Goth girl got on the train and sat towards the middle of the car. Dyed black hair. Tattoos on her arms. Tight black shirt on her petite, yet blobular body. And, she proceeded to yak on her cellphone from that stop ALL the way to mine at Irving. Yak Yak Yak Yak Yak Yak Yak. I felt so bad for the poor bastard who was sitting across from her trying to read his book on Zen. I was at the end of the car WITH headphones cranked and I could still hear the shrill, penetrating annoyance of her incessant voice.
I imagined myself getting up and just jacking her right in the face as hard as I could. Wondering how funny it would be to just have someone do something like that on the train to some unsuspecting fat bitch who can’t be courteous to the rest of the people on the train. I even imagined after punching her, and lodging my fist in her face, with broken teeth falling and blood splattering, that everyone in the car would stand up and applaud me. Or, better yet, smack the phone out the door when the train stopped and kick her ass out onto the platform just as the doors close.
Fucking cunt.
Another hot boy on the train this morning. This one had a really big nose and seemed to be sweating and self-conscious about it. Washington and Wells seems to be THE place to get off the train if you’re hot. I spent more time being annoyed with the fact there was a Green Line car attached to my Brown Line train, and I was in it. The different lines all have different kinds of cars, and I just like my Brown Line cars.
I miss summer. I know it actually IS summer, but I miss summer feeling like a different time of year and actually have distinct differences that were enjoyable. Work sucks.
Not that I require it because I can do just fine on my own, but ever since Jennifer left, my dad has not been able to give me a lift once. It could be a coincidence, or it could be the Universe again fucking with me and saying ’Ha ha ha you directionless twit. Sweat your balls off because YOU my friend are walking!’... and, it has been fucking hot out there too. Yesterday I was praying for the rain storm to start up, because I could see it lingering in the skies. The air was so thick with humidity you could do a Scooby Doo number and cut it with a knife.
My new Thoreau book is unfortunately boring the hell out of me. The problem started with the Editor and his introduction that went on and on for pages and pages. I got so tired of his yammering that I just skipped ahead and found myself completely disillusioned with the actual text. I don’t think I am in the mood right now for Transcendentalist opinion. I feel like reading more fiction.
Had a dream last night that I got two tickets to see Josh Groban. It was a happy dream. No monsters chasing me. No murders trying to kill me. A nice, pleasant dream.