Overtime, Overkill, again

So I figured that while honesty isn’t the best policy with oneself, especially in the case of corporate employment, it’s not healthy to completely swing the other way and just live a life of LIES. BLOODY HELL. This should have been obvious from the start right? Maybe. Then again a lot of people, myself included, are in denial about it and prefer to just kid themselves into being happy.

In all honesty, I am not happy at my day job. But I’ve never been this happy in all other areas of my life. Granted, there’s the occasional anxiety attack (over loneliness, over where the money’s coming from, etc.), but I’m happy. Once my job begins to interfere with my happiness elsewhere, that’s when we consider throwing the towel in.

This is a Promise with a Catch

I like to make fun of Valentine’s day by imagining it as this miserable holiday devoted to changing into my pajamas early and cuddling up to a nice cold bottle of liquor with Some Kind of Wonderful on the tube. In theory, Keith (Eric Stoltz) would have been my perfect guy because, you know, painting. Duh, that’s like, so deep. In practice, I know it would never work. I would probably have castrated Keith, fucked Amanda, and married Watts.

The same goes for Valentine’s, as laughable as the movie marathon with myself and an ice-cold bottle of Lite sounded, in practice it would have probably been a lot better than how I actually spent Valentine’s, which was on another meaningless marathon of “What?” Holidays like this weren’t invented with people like me in mind. For the past decade, the only person who’d get me flowers on Valentine’s day has been my dad. I’ve had boyfriends, but they always assume I like other things. I’m not complaining, but as small a gesture as a houseplant is, it can come pretty loaded with meaning. It’s more of a badge than a gift, like how you bite the bullet and get the fucking ring even if you’ve never seen your woman in jewelry. As much as I like comics and food and other stupid shit, I would want in on the flower club at least once a year.
Continue reading “This is a Promise with a Catch”

I’ll Beat on My Drum ’til I’m Dead

At some point the other shoe will drop. You’ll be staring at a blank page with nothing to write and the most substance you can get out of paper is your credit card bill, which amounts to something-thousand-something I cannot afford (at the moment). And then you have to stay at work to wait for that next thousand or so to roll over into the next bill. “At least” [you hope] “you spent it wisely on ephemeral sources of joy.”

What I love about concerts is that either I’m there at that moment or I wasn’t there at all. And that matters to me. But that’s something I can say about everything else that matters in my life.

I am so tired of people saying “If you want to write, then write” or “If you want to draw, then draw” or “If you want to…” nevermind. I’m sure it’s pretty clear by now. There’s no shortage of wanting, but it’s when that counts. It’s not even how or why not, it’s really _when_. You spend half of all your days getting to and [being] at your job, that thing that pays the bills, and at some point it drains you of ways to express exactly what it is you love and what it is you really live for.