Because every single aspect of my life is in arrears, I can't just make measured progress; I have to kill myself by going over and above in order to make any kind of a dent in my situation. I can't just spend wisely; I have to mind every penny in order to pay down my mountain of debt. I can't just eat sensibly; I have to starve myself to shed the 50 pounds of fat I've been carrying for over five years. I can't just organize my apartment; I have to weed through years of neglect to get a handle on things. I can't just start writing; I have to slog through 30 years of chaotic, hastily written notes and half-formed ideas. I can't just put in a fair day's work; I have to work before hours, after hours, on weekends to catch up on all I've let get behind.
Always by myself. And keep going. And keep smiling. And keep sober. All for the fantasy that I might one day enjoy life more than I do now or ever have in my past. I'm sick of the stress of it all.
Always by myself. And keep going. And keep smiling. And keep sober. All for the fantasy that I might one day enjoy life more than I do now or ever have in my past. I'm sick of the stress of it all.
Work Sucks
Late night, come home
Work sucks, I know...
{Blink-182, "All the Small Things"}
Speaking of work, I try not to complain overmuch about my job in this blog, even though I don't really have someone in my life to vent to. Mostly my hesitation comes from a irrational fear that my comments will somehow come back to haunt me and cause me trouble. Anyway, it's been a pretty shitty day, capped off by my painstakingly-worded e-mail—so as not to offend those delicate egos—being responded to with passive-aggressive vitriol. Since I'm a powerless serf, there's really not much I can do except fume. It's been a surprisingly difficult test of my resolve not to drink, especially since I'm fed up with struggling with my fucking mood. Why shouldn't I just drink and snatch what little pleasure I can from this miserable, boring existence?
