May 4, 2002 My getting up before eight on a Saturday morning is no doubt odd, but few things have taken on shades of normalcy lately. It's not like the sky has turned paisley and it's raining lollipops that are getting stuck in my hair even though there's a roof over my head, it's not as if the river has turned to Jolt cola and the Canadian geese are suddenly experiencing facial tics and grinding their teeth. It's just an unusual series of events, the process of deviating from my comfortably numbing routine, realizing it is beyond necessary, and of course, finding the balls to do it.
8:36 am
Could I have spent my entire summer complaining about being cooped up in a Skinner box of a bookstore, slipping in gibes at the red counter and poles reflecting a blatant Communist regime? I had myself thoroughly convinced my place in this world is not selling candy bars and telling people what they do not want to hear ("Yes, that's the used price"). In my journal are lists of all the projects I intended to put off until I have time. Assessing the value of time has taken me beyond pondering my own worth. I know I could be productive, with my scrapbooks, collages, and pages upon pages of poetry. My summer could be one I look back on as enjoyable and not confined between institutional-white walls, fixated on the lagging second hand. I have enough money saved to see that happen, even without the raise I have yet to see evidence of. So I told Carl something along the lines of, "I'm leaving this depressing shit job to regenerate the portions of myself Follett has unduly amputated, pursue creative endeavors, and ruin your day. I'd be happy, however, to come back in the fall."
It was easy. Hardly as emotionally taxing as anticipated, I just said it, told him my last day is May 16, and attempted to shrug off the guilt trip Chris attempted to lay on me. Being relentlessly passive is among the worst things a person can do for him or herself. So convinced was I that how I felt, what I thought and what I wanted were of no concern to anyone else, I succeeded in making myself unhappy for longer than was necessary. Free textbooks and the opportunity to read on the job are not worth unfulfilling work and no chance for upward mobility. Perhaps my utter inconspicuousness is what made me such a valued employee. That is not an attribute I want ingrained in me for all time. I like who I was working with. If I did not, I wouldn't go back in the fall. It was more circumstantial; the fact that even though taking a break will not guarantee happiness, it's better pursued on my own time. Money has little meaning air is all you really want.
Not having a job will mean not having one to bitch about until it's time to go sleep. It will mean nowhere to place the blame for my shortcomings, other than myself. I'll get to see what I'm capable of not run down or overscheduled. Believe me, you won't hear me bitch about being bored.
There is just one week of classes remaining. I would say I cannot believe it, but it's a lie. The semester was far too long, but I seem to have gotten my History grade up. The last test scored me a 96, the extra paper got a 95 and more embarrassing praise from Professor Duvall. She's such a sweet woman, always trying to help her students do the best they can, without bending the curriculum or requirements to see that happen. My writing is strong and full of detail, she says. Then she said something about taking me to lunch sometime. I cannot tell if she was serious.
Another abnormal, disheartening, and shocking occurrence moved me on Thursday. Perhaps I was the last to find out; the only one still getting the news from the Cranford Chronicle. A guy I used to go to school with was killed in a car crash. I was not friends with him, but it still took a while to sink in. He did not break his pelvis after wrapping his car around a tree, nor is he in a coma. He is gone and not coming back. Seventeen, he was. My age, and about to graduate. Nobody deserves to go that young. In sixth grade, Eddie was the new kid. Everyone in Mrs. DeVito's class wrote him letters to welcome him and introduce ourselves, to soften the shellshock of coming in the middle of the year. Mrs. DeVito isn't here anymore, either. Through seventh and eighth grade, I used to call him Blowpop. It was just a playful nickname, born from my observation, at that particular time in my development, that his head was shaped like one, or too big for the rest of his body. It is surreal, and I just can't believe it. Everything I did from that point on felt superficial, shallow. Brushing the knots from my hair, getting upset that someone in Communications might have a presentation similar to mine. Nothing like that should matter, and yet it does.
