(no subject)
Being around so much information and with it all so readily available, I announce to myself, "This is bliss. This is Heaven, whatever that is."
And then I tell myself to quit being so thoughtful, to quit living a life in prose, and then I kneel and open a magazine.
It's not that I am a horrible worker at a good job that affords me this oppurtunity. I tell myself it is a good worker at a horrible job. Pushing carts, hanging bicycles, doing customer service, operating a forklift and a scissor lift; these aren't challenging by any stretch of the imagination. The worst fate of anyone on this earth is to be bored. We all have different fears and the only one we all share is boredom. That's what I tell myself as I select a magazine to read.
If what you read dictates who you are then I must be homosexual, because I read Details for men. It's pretty much an awareness book for men, but tragically it is often looked upon as a gay magazine.
This month they are tackling subjects like "Why can't white people make racist jokes as comedians?", a good point, and "Tom Ford tells you how and what to shave". The latter is intriguing, and located on page seventy-two.
I flip to page seventy-two. Here before me is a picture of a man laying on a crushed velvet bedspread while drinking a martini. His complexion is tanned and he wears a silk button up shirt. He claims to be forty-two years old and he might be what some people consider "perfect". Because so many people think he is perfect, he gets to write in a column about when to shave yourself, how, and why. He also tackles other things, but as a guy, I know and so do others that the biggest enigma of male-dom is probably that of shaving yourself.
I have many escapades in that department but we'll save that story for another time.
So what he does is rattle off fashion tips to the journalist of this magazine and he gets his money, and he gets to let the masses steal a little of his thunder. Not enough for him not to be perfect, but enough to give the obese and pale Americans a chance at decency. Too bad they majority of us will never change. Too bad history repeats itself.
So in bullet format he lists things off. The first thing I read is "If you have thick eyebrows, comb them so they look kempt. If they are incredibly thick, then pluck. Don't go overboard, that is scary!" I think this is self-explanatory. Just to make certain though, I dig into the skin on my forearm with my keys, "make sure eyebrows look good, tom ford thinks I'll be sexy." As if. Moving on.
"Lay in the bathtub with the vapors rising, and apply visine for really white eyes. The combination of the moist atmosphere and the drops will make your eyes incredibly white. This is something often overlooked by most males. Also, put a cold can of coke over your eyes to remove bags." This was a lot more useful than the eyebrows thing, at least. And my eyes dry out easily because I wear contacts, so I put Tom Ford on my pedestal, inadvertantly shoving God off. Whoops.
And then I read "Don't shave your balls. No woman likes stubble in their mouth." Well, at least he noted that everyone's balls are in a woman's mouth at all times. Disregard the fact that shaving your balls seems like it'd be risky business anyway. If I were to have a column in a magazine, I say use a pair of electric clippers with a 1/8th guard or no guard at all. There is no razor burn or risk of deadly incision. But that would never happen.
I flip my phone open, and it's 3:58 PM, meaning I'm done for the day. Now I walk to the back and I clock out. Now I check my time, and it says I have thirty minutes of overtime, too late now. Now I walk out to my car. Now I get into my car and I drive. Now I think.
I think. I reflect.
I was talking to Tony online. I told Tony that life at this point is about self-reassurance. If I tell myself tomorrow will be better, and I say it every day, then I can live with my head down on a day-by-day basis. I plan on doing this until my career starts. Any other way and I'd remember that I work at Wal-Mart and likely try and do something drastic.
In the same instance, I religiously pay my mother $350 every paycheck and then put $100 into savings, for what perpetually is a trip to see Krista. Since I generally get paid $550, I am left with $100 to spare. Correct me if I'm wrong. Also, $40 is deducted for gas. So $60 to stretch me two weeks, until I get paid $550 to repeat the process.
If I were to look at this big picture, at this redundant process, I'd be very upset. It's why I have to keep my head down. It's why I give forth minimalist effort at work.
Money will never own me, I say. It already does, reality tells me. I have fun on the weekends and I now have $607 in the bank, I say. You afford yourself two dollars a day for a drink and a bag of chips, reality says.
Reality is an asshole. Maybe that's why I dream, and maybe that's why I'd rather use abstract and profound logic. I acknowledge that reality exists but the only reason people never get to live in the clouds is because reality doesn't let them. My effective means to live with my head in the clouds is to keep my head down. Maybe we all should.
Then I pull into my drive-way. Then I shave. Then I put all of my belongings on my nightstand. Then I type all of this out.
And then I tell myself to quit being so thoughtful, to quit living a life in prose, and then I kneel and open a magazine.
It's not that I am a horrible worker at a good job that affords me this oppurtunity. I tell myself it is a good worker at a horrible job. Pushing carts, hanging bicycles, doing customer service, operating a forklift and a scissor lift; these aren't challenging by any stretch of the imagination. The worst fate of anyone on this earth is to be bored. We all have different fears and the only one we all share is boredom. That's what I tell myself as I select a magazine to read.
If what you read dictates who you are then I must be homosexual, because I read Details for men. It's pretty much an awareness book for men, but tragically it is often looked upon as a gay magazine.
This month they are tackling subjects like "Why can't white people make racist jokes as comedians?", a good point, and "Tom Ford tells you how and what to shave". The latter is intriguing, and located on page seventy-two.
I flip to page seventy-two. Here before me is a picture of a man laying on a crushed velvet bedspread while drinking a martini. His complexion is tanned and he wears a silk button up shirt. He claims to be forty-two years old and he might be what some people consider "perfect". Because so many people think he is perfect, he gets to write in a column about when to shave yourself, how, and why. He also tackles other things, but as a guy, I know and so do others that the biggest enigma of male-dom is probably that of shaving yourself.
I have many escapades in that department but we'll save that story for another time.
So what he does is rattle off fashion tips to the journalist of this magazine and he gets his money, and he gets to let the masses steal a little of his thunder. Not enough for him not to be perfect, but enough to give the obese and pale Americans a chance at decency. Too bad they majority of us will never change. Too bad history repeats itself.
So in bullet format he lists things off. The first thing I read is "If you have thick eyebrows, comb them so they look kempt. If they are incredibly thick, then pluck. Don't go overboard, that is scary!" I think this is self-explanatory. Just to make certain though, I dig into the skin on my forearm with my keys, "make sure eyebrows look good, tom ford thinks I'll be sexy." As if. Moving on.
"Lay in the bathtub with the vapors rising, and apply visine for really white eyes. The combination of the moist atmosphere and the drops will make your eyes incredibly white. This is something often overlooked by most males. Also, put a cold can of coke over your eyes to remove bags." This was a lot more useful than the eyebrows thing, at least. And my eyes dry out easily because I wear contacts, so I put Tom Ford on my pedestal, inadvertantly shoving God off. Whoops.
And then I read "Don't shave your balls. No woman likes stubble in their mouth." Well, at least he noted that everyone's balls are in a woman's mouth at all times. Disregard the fact that shaving your balls seems like it'd be risky business anyway. If I were to have a column in a magazine, I say use a pair of electric clippers with a 1/8th guard or no guard at all. There is no razor burn or risk of deadly incision. But that would never happen.
I flip my phone open, and it's 3:58 PM, meaning I'm done for the day. Now I walk to the back and I clock out. Now I check my time, and it says I have thirty minutes of overtime, too late now. Now I walk out to my car. Now I get into my car and I drive. Now I think.
I think. I reflect.
I was talking to Tony online. I told Tony that life at this point is about self-reassurance. If I tell myself tomorrow will be better, and I say it every day, then I can live with my head down on a day-by-day basis. I plan on doing this until my career starts. Any other way and I'd remember that I work at Wal-Mart and likely try and do something drastic.
In the same instance, I religiously pay my mother $350 every paycheck and then put $100 into savings, for what perpetually is a trip to see Krista. Since I generally get paid $550, I am left with $100 to spare. Correct me if I'm wrong. Also, $40 is deducted for gas. So $60 to stretch me two weeks, until I get paid $550 to repeat the process.
If I were to look at this big picture, at this redundant process, I'd be very upset. It's why I have to keep my head down. It's why I give forth minimalist effort at work.
Money will never own me, I say. It already does, reality tells me. I have fun on the weekends and I now have $607 in the bank, I say. You afford yourself two dollars a day for a drink and a bag of chips, reality says.
Reality is an asshole. Maybe that's why I dream, and maybe that's why I'd rather use abstract and profound logic. I acknowledge that reality exists but the only reason people never get to live in the clouds is because reality doesn't let them. My effective means to live with my head in the clouds is to keep my head down. Maybe we all should.
Then I pull into my drive-way. Then I shave. Then I put all of my belongings on my nightstand. Then I type all of this out.