April 16 ...I don't think we're in Kansas anymore.
9:47 pm
Yesterday, I awoke to glorious weather easing at least some of the arthritic resolve out of my joints. Walking to school to take a test, a quiz, and embark on a group project in a class proctored by a moron did not intimidate me one bit. Academic achievement was negligible for fifteen minutes. The sun was shining, breezes were blowing my hair all over the damn place, and June was bustin' out all over.
Except it's April.
The weather was too nice for me to pause to question what the fuck is going on, or wonder aloud why those of us residing in temperate climates are suddenly sweating. Temperatures reaching toward the eighties had my mood curiously lifted as well. Everything was not its typical shade of smog. There were, in fact, colors. I was greeted by the innumerable hues of vegetation thoughtful enough to materialize over a weekend spent studying, with the exception of a long walk on Sunday and a dinner out to celebrate something that probably should have happened a long time ago.
Pop the cork, set off the fireworks, my brother got a job. He's temping at a mortgage company in a nine-to-five slot. He was efficient enough to procure an offer for a permanent position after the very first day. He was also hollowed out by the tedious demands of data entry, and asserted it "sucks the life out of you" after the very first day. Is that why they call it work? Hell, life sucks the life out of you. Then you come home and bitch about work because working gives you the right to do that with as much bitterness as is humanly possible. You, like every other American, pay off your credit card(s) only to fill hauntingly empty corners of your life with crap you do not need. Then you go to work and count the seconds until your next paycheck so you can bitch about that too. Junk is everywhere, but objects to hurl at TV screens advertising the happiness depicted in Paxil commercials are few and far between. And then you scream, "OF COURSE MY FUCKING LIFE IS WAITING! I TRADED IT FOR STATUS QUO AND WON'T GET IT BACK UNTIL I'M SIXTY-FUCKING-FIVE AND HAVE SUFFERED ENOUGH TO EARN A DECENT PENSION!!" And then your significant other or conscience (whichever comes first) tells you you're cranky and need more sleep and can bitch about corporate America's stranglehold on your potential to transcend after this commercial break...
Maybe he doesn't like working because it makes you feel small. A job turns you into an insignificant drop in a bucket overflowing with companies licking the asses of bigger companies if they are too weak to just trample the competition. "I could have sworn I had a soul once, but now I'm just a catalyst for (insert company name here)'s expansion! My suffering benefits fat CEOs with fatter wallets and I want out but can't get out because need fucking insurance to perpetuate this deadening cycle!"
When you are by yourself all the time or in company of those who'll boost your ego for mutual gratification, there is plenty of room for inflation. We are all great inside our own heads, because if we quit denying our insignificance, we'd all kill ourselves. Even those who kill themselves are ridiculously selfish, failing to consider that they are also taking part of the heart someone loves them more than they know. But that's another entry. Tolerating yourself in an environment of your choosing is rarely a problem, where psychopathology is not concerned. Thinking you're terrific when you are stuck on the sole of another's shoe isn't nearly as much fun. So we strive for upward mobility. It's no great secret that those who get paid more do less and answer fewer questions. No one wants to fuck with the big guy.
Speaking of the big guy, I got evaluated like all employees do eventually. I have given enough of my life to Follett and done it with resistance surreptitious enough to warrant a four percent raise. I get an extra quarter just as they have decided to close an hour early. To be honest, my staying is more contingent upon my hours being slashed than by making more money. Don't get me wrong, money is good. It's the kindling fueling our dirty lifestyles. It's even better when you don't spend it and collect sixty-nine cents of interest a month.
Where did this tangent start? Was I not intending to talk about how pretty the weather is again? My mind is scrambled by the heat and the friendly muscle relaxants making sleeping in it more than just an intangible wish. The current prescription cocktail, in conjunction with the purdy weather, abates all the lamentations I have churning through my brain at all hours. I haven't been curling up on my bed to complain in my journal right before I leave the house. Getting home an hour earlier equals sixty more minutes not governed by the heinous ogres of the textbook industry. What a difference an hour makes. Reading books opposed to consumerism seems to light some kind of a fuse in me. And I'm only on page sixty-something. It was funny, today in Communications, some girl made reference to it. I whipped it out and all we awed into the stunning stupor of coincidence. Almost.
Right now, I'm focused on completing school projects so I have less to think about.
