Season's Greetings to all!
I hope that everyone has had a Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Joyous Kwanzaa, and any other Yuletide holiday I may have missed. I wish I could say I have, but that would be a lie.
On December 5th, at 6:05 pm central time, My grandmother passed away.
She was 75 years old, and had been battling cancer for the past 12 years or so. Despite the fact that it eventually claimed her life, I can honestly say she won that fight; she endured far longer than many would have; there was not a single remission the entire length of her battle, and yet she maintained a strong spirit throughout. I know that the only reason she fought for so long was because of us, her family.
Even weeks later, I still don't know how I feel. It goes without saying that I love her and miss her; it boggles the mind to realize that I will never again hear her voice, never again speak to her. She'll never again call me her little "Honey-honey, Sugar-sugar." I'll never get to hug her and tell her I love her. That fact saddens me beyond measure.
But I also am relieved that it is over; she fought for so long, and I know how tired she was of the struggle. It comforts me to know that she can rest now, that she has moved beyond suffering.
So, I'm left with a strange mixture of grief and relief.
Up until now, I've been fortunate. My grandmother's passing is the first time I've ever experienced a death in the family. I know for a fact that most people cannot make the same claim. As bad as it is, I think the worst part is that I know that this is just the beginning. Death is inevitable; as I get older and as time goes on, more people I love will die, and there's nothing that I or anyone else can do to prevent it. I've known this on an intellectual level for as long as I can remember; I think Bambi's mom dying was the big reveal.
But until now, I've never actually known it on an emotional level. I still don't know how I feel, or how to process. I haven't really had any time to grieve or truly process; I spent a week in Kansas City, visiting family and attending the funeral; between the time spent with aunts and uncles and cousins by the score, I never had a moment alone. And once I left, I immediately had to return to work and my normal routine, as if nothing had changed in my life.
Understandably, this has put a serious damper on the holiday season. The truth is Christmas was pretty much cancelled this year; there was no tree or decorations, no family meal, and no gifts exchanged. I think everyone is tapped out emotionally.
I know I am.
This year has been rough; there have been more defeats than victories, more loses than gains in my life as of late. Even though I knew it was coming, I can't help but feel as if my grandmother's death was the knockout punch for me. I'm bone tired, exhausted beyond measure. And I see no relief in sight, no light at the end of the tunnel. Just more of the same drudgery, minus my grandmother's presence.
What am I supposed to do now?
Tuesday, December 30, 2014
Thursday, October 23, 2014
Black Musing's A Series of Unfortunate Events Part 3: The Store
Clearly, the wonderful city of Everett has decided I don't get nice things.
I was on a routine mission to the grocery store, a rundown shack of an Albertsons famed for the hoodlums which do a passable job of imitating Jay and Silent Bob by spending all hours of the day loitering outside its doors, doing who knows what. Knowing this neighborhood, probably selling crack to school children.
It was a quick in and out trip to pick up some melatonin; I've had trouble getting to and staying asleep for weeks now, and figured melatonin would be a better alternative to the more powerful sleep aids. I'm not a fan of the woozy, drugged sensation most sleep aids induce, especially since it usually lasts the entire duration of a work day. And as is apparent, I've been having enough troubles with work to add "drugged and drowsy" to the list. But that's a different rant entirely.
Upon exiting, I discovered that my bike, which I had locked up good and proper, had been vandalized despite my efforts. The seat post and seat were missing.
The seat and seat post.
The people in this wretched cesspool really know how to put the "petty" in petty theft. Perhaps I'm simply naive when it comes to the subject of criminal behavior, but exactly what can be gained from such an item? Unless you happen to be missing a seat post for your bike, what are you going to use a stolen one for? Is there a huge market in the seedy underworld for such items? How much money can you get at a pawn shop for a seat?
So, something has been stolen from me once again. I can't even go to a public area and park my bike for five minutes without something happening to it. I ask you, what does that say about this place? What does it say about the people that frequent it?
My lease is up in April. I count the days with bated breath.
I was on a routine mission to the grocery store, a rundown shack of an Albertsons famed for the hoodlums which do a passable job of imitating Jay and Silent Bob by spending all hours of the day loitering outside its doors, doing who knows what. Knowing this neighborhood, probably selling crack to school children.
It was a quick in and out trip to pick up some melatonin; I've had trouble getting to and staying asleep for weeks now, and figured melatonin would be a better alternative to the more powerful sleep aids. I'm not a fan of the woozy, drugged sensation most sleep aids induce, especially since it usually lasts the entire duration of a work day. And as is apparent, I've been having enough troubles with work to add "drugged and drowsy" to the list. But that's a different rant entirely.
Upon exiting, I discovered that my bike, which I had locked up good and proper, had been vandalized despite my efforts. The seat post and seat were missing.
The seat and seat post.
The people in this wretched cesspool really know how to put the "petty" in petty theft. Perhaps I'm simply naive when it comes to the subject of criminal behavior, but exactly what can be gained from such an item? Unless you happen to be missing a seat post for your bike, what are you going to use a stolen one for? Is there a huge market in the seedy underworld for such items? How much money can you get at a pawn shop for a seat?
So, something has been stolen from me once again. I can't even go to a public area and park my bike for five minutes without something happening to it. I ask you, what does that say about this place? What does it say about the people that frequent it?
My lease is up in April. I count the days with bated breath.
Thursday, October 16, 2014
Hunting
It begins yet again.
There are some activities that inspire nothing but dread from me. One of them is moving; packing up a bunch of junk, breaking a sweat along with your back hauling it to a new location, and then unpacking it feels like the biggest waste of time to me. I hate moving, if that wasn't clear.
The other activity I hate, the one that I am currently engaged in, is job hunting. Is there any process more demoralizing than looking for employment? Before my current nightmare- that is to say, my job- I was on unemployment for close to two years. In that period of time, I filled out close to 1000 applications, and sent my resume to countless businesses and organizations. I can count on one hand the number of actual interviews I attended. I fell into a deep funk that only the unemployed can experience. You feel a helplessness along with a bitter sense of uselessness as the days blend into weeks which blend in to months. It's a gloomy place to be in.
Now, thankfully I'm only dealing with the job hunting aspect; I'm still employed as of the moment, so that's a plus. My loathing of my current job is eclipsed only by my fear of being incapable of paying the rent, so I must use a considerable amount of willpower each shift to prevent myself from either walking out or saying something that will get me fired. Or both at the same time.
Looking back, I can pinpoint just when the job became unbearable for me. You've heard the expression "listen to your gut," right? It comes down to trusting your instincts and listening to that tiny voice in the back of your mind that speaks legit advice. You know, that part of your brain that is getting an atomic wedgie from the bigger, stronger, stupid part of your brain that watches Fox news and believes that politicians have our best interests at heart.
My gut warned me from the get go that I could very quickly be burnt out if I over did it at this job; my original shift was only 24 hours a week, which amounted to three 8 hour shifts. From there, I had plenty of time to relax and distance myself from the stress and B.S. of the job. And between August 2013 and January 2014, that worked out splendidly. But then the added expenses of student loans reared its ugly bucktoothed face, and suddenly I found myself needing more money.
Logically, I did what most reasonable, intelligent people do: I requested more hours. And for anyone else, that might have been fine. But not me; that precious little voice in the back of my mind was overruled by the rest of my brain and getting a swirly of epic proportions.
It was a mistake to start working full time at this place; I knew the added stress would get to me, but I foolishly ignored my gut and jumped in the deep end, not realizing I wasn't wearing any floaties. Now I know that logically, I did the right thing; I gots dem bills to pay, ya'll.
But wasn't the right move.
My inclination was to get a second job. Why? Because then I could have a second source of income that was not dependent on one employer; if holding two jobs got to be too much, or if I found the other job intolerable, I could just quit and find another. It brings to mind that saying "don't keep all of your eggs in one basket." It would have been tedious and time consuming, but I likely wouldn't be in my current predicament had I just done that. But I was lazy and said "fuck it," and went along and moved to working full time. Which brings us up to date. All of my eggs are in one basket and in danger of some asshole fox snatching them from my coop.
So now I'm job hunting once again. I've updated my resume, and will now spend much of my free time filling out application after horrendous application, all the while dealing with the stress and frustration that my current employment brings me. Honestly, if I wasn't such a manly man, I'd break down and cry.
There are some activities that inspire nothing but dread from me. One of them is moving; packing up a bunch of junk, breaking a sweat along with your back hauling it to a new location, and then unpacking it feels like the biggest waste of time to me. I hate moving, if that wasn't clear.
The other activity I hate, the one that I am currently engaged in, is job hunting. Is there any process more demoralizing than looking for employment? Before my current nightmare- that is to say, my job- I was on unemployment for close to two years. In that period of time, I filled out close to 1000 applications, and sent my resume to countless businesses and organizations. I can count on one hand the number of actual interviews I attended. I fell into a deep funk that only the unemployed can experience. You feel a helplessness along with a bitter sense of uselessness as the days blend into weeks which blend in to months. It's a gloomy place to be in.
Now, thankfully I'm only dealing with the job hunting aspect; I'm still employed as of the moment, so that's a plus. My loathing of my current job is eclipsed only by my fear of being incapable of paying the rent, so I must use a considerable amount of willpower each shift to prevent myself from either walking out or saying something that will get me fired. Or both at the same time.
Looking back, I can pinpoint just when the job became unbearable for me. You've heard the expression "listen to your gut," right? It comes down to trusting your instincts and listening to that tiny voice in the back of your mind that speaks legit advice. You know, that part of your brain that is getting an atomic wedgie from the bigger, stronger, stupid part of your brain that watches Fox news and believes that politicians have our best interests at heart.
My gut warned me from the get go that I could very quickly be burnt out if I over did it at this job; my original shift was only 24 hours a week, which amounted to three 8 hour shifts. From there, I had plenty of time to relax and distance myself from the stress and B.S. of the job. And between August 2013 and January 2014, that worked out splendidly. But then the added expenses of student loans reared its ugly bucktoothed face, and suddenly I found myself needing more money.
 |
| "Where's my money?" |
Logically, I did what most reasonable, intelligent people do: I requested more hours. And for anyone else, that might have been fine. But not me; that precious little voice in the back of my mind was overruled by the rest of my brain and getting a swirly of epic proportions.
It was a mistake to start working full time at this place; I knew the added stress would get to me, but I foolishly ignored my gut and jumped in the deep end, not realizing I wasn't wearing any floaties. Now I know that logically, I did the right thing; I gots dem bills to pay, ya'll.
But wasn't the right move.
My inclination was to get a second job. Why? Because then I could have a second source of income that was not dependent on one employer; if holding two jobs got to be too much, or if I found the other job intolerable, I could just quit and find another. It brings to mind that saying "don't keep all of your eggs in one basket." It would have been tedious and time consuming, but I likely wouldn't be in my current predicament had I just done that. But I was lazy and said "fuck it," and went along and moved to working full time. Which brings us up to date. All of my eggs are in one basket and in danger of some asshole fox snatching them from my coop.
 |
| Look at him. He's just waiting to fuck me over. |
So now I'm job hunting once again. I've updated my resume, and will now spend much of my free time filling out application after horrendous application, all the while dealing with the stress and frustration that my current employment brings me. Honestly, if I wasn't such a manly man, I'd break down and cry.
Friday, October 10, 2014
ALL OF MY HATE!
I am so fucking done.
On Sunday, August 4th 2013, I posted a blog entry entitled "Lifestyle Upgrade." In it, I detailed an exciting new career opportunity and the benefits it would reap. I would like you to go back and read that blog. Seriously, it will take but a moment of your time. Go ahead, I'll wait...
Done? Good.
Having so read that post, I want you understand just how serious I am when I say what I'm about to say. Let it sink into your comprehension the way Artax sank into the Swamp of Sadness.
I was a fucking idiot. A simpleminded, naive idiot.
It's been a long time coming, but now I have to express a dreadful truth I've done my best to contain and suppress, not unlike fighting my gag reflex.
I hate my job. I hate, hate, hate, hate, hate my job.
I've been working since I was 15 or 16 years old. I've had crap jobs and not so crap jobs- calling any of them good would be a huge lie on my part. Throughout it all, I've done what most people do: suck it up, do my shift, and ache for the weekend. That's just a part of adult life. Unless, of course, you're one of those rare and lucky individuals who actually enjoy their work. In which case, I'd like to say "congrats!"
But in all of my years, I've never actively dreaded going to work. I've never had to stand in front of a mirror and stare down my own reflection, employing encouraging affirmations and desperately seeking to stem the tide of depression and rank cynicism that this job evokes. Over the past 14 months, I've dealt with depression, the constant second guessing of myself, and more sick days than I've experienced in the last 5 years previous combined; I once boasted having a rock-solid immune system, capable of beating down the meanest colds and most brutal illness. Those days are long gone, I fear. And I am firmly convinced that it is stress that is doing it to me.
Today was that tiny bit straw that laid low the mighty camel. After coming into work and having the first hour spent closeted in my bosses office, going over all the ways I suck, I believe I am well and truly done. I spent the rest of the day in the worst mood I've ever been in.
Let that last statement sink in...
Anyone who knows me well knows that I can be an angry person. Hell, "angry" is likely the understatement of this and last century. At its peak, my rage can level mountains and end the lives of thousands; I'm convinced it was my anger that caused the end of the dinosaurs. Maybe. Somehow. Shut up.
When I'm upset, I explode. It's a quick flash of furious annihilation. And then it's done, and there's peace once more. I don't hold grudges or retain hard feelings. Not usually.
But today, I was in a bad mood. No jokes, no smiles, no conversation that wasn't work related. I simmered and stewed like a cauldron. I don't think I've ever sat in one spot for 8 hours and just seethed. It just isn't my style. But that's what my day was. And more than likely, that's what most of my days will be like as long as I'm still working this job.
Don't get me wrong, the pay is good. I get benefits and PTO. I work with some pretty amazing people; with one exception, I like all of them. I'm doing work that actually matters, that impacts the lives of others in what I hope is a positive way. But if I'm being honest, and I'm always honest, that isn't enough anymore. The work load continues to rise and along with it, the stress. Stress begets ill feelings, ill health, and ultimately a poor style of life. I am so tired of spending my evenings after work depressed about the workday I just experienced and anxious about what the next workday will produce. I'm tired of spending my weekends dreading the following work week. I'm tired of being so worried that I lose sleep. I'm just tired of being tired.
This mesalliance has to come to an end.
On Sunday, August 4th 2013, I posted a blog entry entitled "Lifestyle Upgrade." In it, I detailed an exciting new career opportunity and the benefits it would reap. I would like you to go back and read that blog. Seriously, it will take but a moment of your time. Go ahead, I'll wait...
Done? Good.
Having so read that post, I want you understand just how serious I am when I say what I'm about to say. Let it sink into your comprehension the way Artax sank into the Swamp of Sadness.
I was a fucking idiot. A simpleminded, naive idiot.
It's been a long time coming, but now I have to express a dreadful truth I've done my best to contain and suppress, not unlike fighting my gag reflex.
I hate my job. I hate, hate, hate, hate, hate my job.
I've been working since I was 15 or 16 years old. I've had crap jobs and not so crap jobs- calling any of them good would be a huge lie on my part. Throughout it all, I've done what most people do: suck it up, do my shift, and ache for the weekend. That's just a part of adult life. Unless, of course, you're one of those rare and lucky individuals who actually enjoy their work. In which case, I'd like to say "congrats!"
 |
| "And piss off!" |
But in all of my years, I've never actively dreaded going to work. I've never had to stand in front of a mirror and stare down my own reflection, employing encouraging affirmations and desperately seeking to stem the tide of depression and rank cynicism that this job evokes. Over the past 14 months, I've dealt with depression, the constant second guessing of myself, and more sick days than I've experienced in the last 5 years previous combined; I once boasted having a rock-solid immune system, capable of beating down the meanest colds and most brutal illness. Those days are long gone, I fear. And I am firmly convinced that it is stress that is doing it to me.
Today was that tiny bit straw that laid low the mighty camel. After coming into work and having the first hour spent closeted in my bosses office, going over all the ways I suck, I believe I am well and truly done. I spent the rest of the day in the worst mood I've ever been in.
Let that last statement sink in...
|
| Really? Again?! |
Anyone who knows me well knows that I can be an angry person. Hell, "angry" is likely the understatement of this and last century. At its peak, my rage can level mountains and end the lives of thousands; I'm convinced it was my anger that caused the end of the dinosaurs. Maybe. Somehow. Shut up.
 |
| My rage |
When I'm upset, I explode. It's a quick flash of furious annihilation. And then it's done, and there's peace once more. I don't hold grudges or retain hard feelings. Not usually.
But today, I was in a bad mood. No jokes, no smiles, no conversation that wasn't work related. I simmered and stewed like a cauldron. I don't think I've ever sat in one spot for 8 hours and just seethed. It just isn't my style. But that's what my day was. And more than likely, that's what most of my days will be like as long as I'm still working this job.
Don't get me wrong, the pay is good. I get benefits and PTO. I work with some pretty amazing people; with one exception, I like all of them. I'm doing work that actually matters, that impacts the lives of others in what I hope is a positive way. But if I'm being honest, and I'm always honest, that isn't enough anymore. The work load continues to rise and along with it, the stress. Stress begets ill feelings, ill health, and ultimately a poor style of life. I am so tired of spending my evenings after work depressed about the workday I just experienced and anxious about what the next workday will produce. I'm tired of spending my weekends dreading the following work week. I'm tired of being so worried that I lose sleep. I'm just tired of being tired.
This mesalliance has to come to an end.
Thursday, October 2, 2014
I'm an Actor!
Well, where do I begin?
Oh, right. Why didn't I think of that?
So, a few months ago, a friend of mine went and had the nerve to get herself invited into a talent agency based here in Seattle. Seattle, it turns out, has a decent industry for commercials, short films, television, and especially voice over work; with a bunch of gaming companies having headquarters in the Emerald City, it stands to reason that they would need voice talent. My friend, who is an amazingly talented singer, is also gifted with one of those voices that should be heard in a myriad of mediums; once they're aware of her, Disney and the like will be pounding on her door, begging to have her voice one of their characters.
So, when she was prancing about her living room, informing me of the incredible news that she was now represented by a talent agency, I was quite naturally excited for her; I only turned the slightest shade of green, and managed to plaster a cheerful smile on my face that I'm sure masked my envious soul. I'm fairly certain I was successful, because I'm a talented actor with years and years of experience.
But then this friend of mine got it in her head that I should apply for a spot in the talent agency as well. I was reluctant; it's been more than five years since I've even looked at a monologue, let alone thought about getting back into performing. In addition, where would I get the money for head shots and resumes and the other expenses needed to advance an acting career? Being the perpetually destitute individual that I am, it wouldn't be the brightest idea to try and squeeze those added expenses into what I can only call a strained budget; some weeks, having enough money for food is a real issue for me. As far as I was concerned, my acting days were behind me. With that in mind, I politely informed my friend that it just wasn't possible, outlining the reasons I just mentioned.
She nodded, agreed with my faultless logic, and dropped it. For about 36 hours. And then she went right back to discussing (pestering) me about applying. I put up a good fight, but after two weeks of nagging, I finally gave in and applied.
And wouldn't you know it? I got in! After five long years, I am an actor again.
Naturally, I'm thrilled beyond words. Other than dealing with even more financial strain and the stresses of auditioning, that is. My friend is no help, of course; every time I bemoan my situation- at least once every couple of days- she'll give me a smug little smirk, her eyes agleam with malicious delight, and say, "I'm not sorry."
How does that old saying go? "With friends like these, who needs enemies?"
Anywho, fast forward 9 weeks, and I've finished the acting workshop my agency offers. It was very informative and much needed; I have five years of rust to knock off my skills, and I know very little about acting in front of a camera.
So, that's pretty much it. I've been slacking on my blog- and writing in general- for the past couple of months mainly because I've suddenly found myself in this surreal circumstance. Now that things are a tad more stable, I plan on upping my posts as well and finally completing a few short stories I've been working on for the past several months.
 |
| "Why not at the beginning, you dummy?!" |
Oh, right. Why didn't I think of that?
So, a few months ago, a friend of mine went and had the nerve to get herself invited into a talent agency based here in Seattle. Seattle, it turns out, has a decent industry for commercials, short films, television, and especially voice over work; with a bunch of gaming companies having headquarters in the Emerald City, it stands to reason that they would need voice talent. My friend, who is an amazingly talented singer, is also gifted with one of those voices that should be heard in a myriad of mediums; once they're aware of her, Disney and the like will be pounding on her door, begging to have her voice one of their characters.
So, when she was prancing about her living room, informing me of the incredible news that she was now represented by a talent agency, I was quite naturally excited for her; I only turned the slightest shade of green, and managed to plaster a cheerful smile on my face that I'm sure masked my envious soul. I'm fairly certain I was successful, because I'm a talented actor with years and years of experience.
But then this friend of mine got it in her head that I should apply for a spot in the talent agency as well. I was reluctant; it's been more than five years since I've even looked at a monologue, let alone thought about getting back into performing. In addition, where would I get the money for head shots and resumes and the other expenses needed to advance an acting career? Being the perpetually destitute individual that I am, it wouldn't be the brightest idea to try and squeeze those added expenses into what I can only call a strained budget; some weeks, having enough money for food is a real issue for me. As far as I was concerned, my acting days were behind me. With that in mind, I politely informed my friend that it just wasn't possible, outlining the reasons I just mentioned.
She nodded, agreed with my faultless logic, and dropped it. For about 36 hours. And then she went right back to discussing (pestering) me about applying. I put up a good fight, but after two weeks of nagging, I finally gave in and applied.
And wouldn't you know it? I got in! After five long years, I am an actor again.
Naturally, I'm thrilled beyond words. Other than dealing with even more financial strain and the stresses of auditioning, that is. My friend is no help, of course; every time I bemoan my situation- at least once every couple of days- she'll give me a smug little smirk, her eyes agleam with malicious delight, and say, "I'm not sorry."
How does that old saying go? "With friends like these, who needs enemies?"
Anywho, fast forward 9 weeks, and I've finished the acting workshop my agency offers. It was very informative and much needed; I have five years of rust to knock off my skills, and I know very little about acting in front of a camera.
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
Black Musing's A Series of Unfortunate Events Part 2: Settling In the Ghetto
Having spent a little more than a month in the lovely city
of Everett, I can say with absolute confidence that it lives up to its sterling
reputation as a complete shithole populated by ignorant thugs. That “other side of the train tracks” metaphor- which is such a cliche expression - fully applies in this circumstance; the people are loud and rude, wander around drunk at all hours, litter (we'll get to that in a bit) and generally demonstrate why no one willingly comes to this part of town.
It hasn’t been a pleasant month. I wish I could say
otherwise, but Everett refuses to let me; every attempted utterance is
interrupted by a slew of ghetto fuckers doing everything in their power to ruin
my good mood. Case in point:
My bike was stolen. Not even a
month living here, and my shit gets jacked by some lowlife hooligan. The person
or persons climbed up to my porch, cut the lock, and rode away with my bike, in
broad daylight. I can honestly admit that when I exited my apartment and found
not my bike, but the neatly severed wire lock, I wasn’t surprised in the least.
Infuriated? Oh my, yes. There are no words that can express how angry I was. Oh wait, actually, there are two.
But surprised? No, not in the least.
I’ve lived in some ghetto places in my day; as bad as
Everett is, it has nothing on Kansas City, Mo. Compared to that slice of
rotting Hell, Everett is a pleasant vacation spot. That doesn’t change the fact
that I HATE this place. I hate it the way the Sith hate the Jedi, and I would not be averse to the Empire pulling an Alderaan on this festering heap.
To give you an example of why the majority of Everett
residents should have been aborted, let me tell you about the 4th of
July. As you know, Independence Day is celebrated with fireworks. The night
skies are filled with a dazzling display of colors. And that’s all good. I like
blowing shit up in the name of freedom as much as the next American. But what I don’t like is the mess afterwards.
Now, most communities have the common decency to clean up the smoking remnants
of their freedom bombs after they finish detonating them.
Everett apparently feels that freedom means they have the
right to leave their mess wherever the fuck they like, and to hell with what
anyone else thinks. I came home from work and was greeted with this:
This sort of repulsive disregard even now brings up that
Hulk-like rage I mentioned earlier.
Ahem. So, bikes.
My older brother, being the most generous and emphatic of my siblings, allowed me to
borrow his bike until I could afford one of my own. Of course, having been
sequestered in some dark corner of his garage, it needed some tender loving care
from yours truly. Dusting off the cobwebs, it appeared that all it needed was
some new inner tubes and it would be up and running. Now, I have the mechanical
ability of a one-armed drunken rhesus monkey, but even I can change a bike tire.
Naturally, things weren’t that simple.
It turns out the back tire rim was severely warped in
several spots, and some portions of the rim had somehow broken off, creating
jagged areas which no doubt are the reason I needed to replace the inner tubes.
So a simple 10 minute procedure
transformed into an afternoons excursion as I walked the bike to the bus stop
and rode to a bike shop, where they could hopefully strengthen out the warped
portion of the wheel. And if all went well, I wouldn’t have to spend too much
money.
No such luck, on both accounts.
The entire back wheel was beyond repair and would need to be
replaced. I was tempted to say, “to hell with it, walking isn’t so bad!” But
that would be a lie. Walking everywhere sucks. It’s a slow mode of
transportation, and I value my time. So it was that I grumpily passed my debit
card to overly cheerful bike mechanic and bought a new wheel. A wheel which cost me $49.99 and reduced my
previously healthy checking account into a sickly, pitiful version of itself.
But hey, at least I have a bike again.
In other news, the roommate and I have managed to rid ourselves
of the mountainous piles of boxes that have made our apartment not simply cramped,
but perilous. Gone are the high walls and potential avalanches. Most of our
(her) stuff is neatly tucked away into a few storage units and out of the way
corners. We have enough room to move about and not run into one another, so
that’s good. But all is not well at the Circle K.
Apartment living doesn’t seem to be working well for any of
us. Tensions are high, and the roommate’s fuse, which has always been short, is
virtually nonexistent these days. I don’t think there’s been a single day since we’ve
moved that there hasn’t been some form of angry eruption; arguments, screaming rants at
the pets, and more. I’ve personally attempted to assume a Zen-like attitude, with mixed
success; my temper has ever been an issue with me, and so I’ve found my
restraint tested time and time again. And it’s been just one month! There’s
still 9 months left on our lease.
And the summer heat hasn’t been helping either. For whatever
reason, this apartment seems to produce heat at an alarming rate. I’m certain
that when the eventual Heat Death of Universe takes place, our smoldering apartment
shall still be here, smugly producing the heat of one thousand stars as the
rest of the physical universe comes to a frozen standstill.
 |
| An artist rendition of my apartment |
The Seattle region is in the midst of a weird anomaly. For
the past two weeks, it’s been nothing but clear, sunny skies and temps in the
mid-80’s to low 90’s. It’s freaking insane, and our apartment absorbs it all
and amplifies it.
The pets have also had a hard time with this change in
environment. Let’s go down the list:
Turo, the Labrador/Rottwaler mix, is having a hard time with
the cramped conditions. The poor boy gets bored easily, so he usually wanders
about. That was fine in our spacious townhouse, but not so much in this microscopic
hotbox. No matter where he moves, he’s always underfoot. He can’t catch a
break.
But on the plus side, he does get to go on five or six walks
a day. He hasn’t gone on so many adventures since he was a puppy, and it does
my heart good to see him bounce and prance around, chasing cats and squirrels
and acting half his age.
Khaleesi, the roommate’s cat, is not taking this move well.
She was raised in our old townhouse. Her earliest memories are of prowling
around that house, climbing on counters and bookshelves and peoples clothes. Now
those familiar environs have been replaced by this. She’s mopey and out of
sorts.
Amusingly, she’s currently at war with a mysterious cat that
inhabits the roommate’s bedroom. She can’t seem to figure out that this rival
cat is in fact her own reflection, produced by the built in mirrors on the
closet door. She’s spent hours hiding under the bed, only coming out to
growl at her reflection and then furiously attack it, to no avail.
Not so amusingly, Khaleesi has started spraying in the
roommate’s bedroom in an attempt to mark her territory against this unknown
invader. Naturally, we don’t approve of that sort of behavior. Khaleesi is becoming an outside cat, since she
can’t seem to adapt to these cramped living conditions.
My cat Kira is weathering the move better than the other
pets; she’s moved a time or two, and isn’t quite as bothered. Not that she
likes it; she spends the majority of her time camped out in my bedroom. I’m
told she only ever comes out to use the bathroom, or when I come home from work.
So, in summary, everything about this sucks, and I can’t
wait to leave. 9 more months…
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
Black Musing's A Series of Unfortunate Events Part 1: Home
It’s amazing how much one’s life can change over the course of a month. Unfortunately, the changes I refer to aren’t pleasant by any means. But before I get to my sad little sob story, let me get something out of the way:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Black Musings!
My blogs first birthday has come and gone. My original intention was to get the blog all
dressed up, take it out for a fun afternoon on the town, and maybe bake it a
cake. Alas, it’s anniversary passed by without notice, due to aforementioned
sob story, which I will get to now.
I currently sit in a cramped, muggy little apartment in
Everett, far away from the posh by comparison townhouse I was living in a
little more than a month ago. How I transitioned from there to here is a sordid
little affair brought on by my former landlord, who shall henceforth be
referred to as Assface.
Rent had just been paid when Assface delivered unto us a
polite, if coldly, worded letter informing us that our lease was up on the
following month, June 15th, and he was not allowing us to renew. No explanation was given, and when we
inquired, he basically said, “fuck you, that’s why.”
 |
| "Peace out, bitches!" |
With that, Assface merrily skipped away and left us with the
frightening prospect of being homeless in a month’s time; none of us had any
money saved up for such an event, and trying to find suitable accommodations in
so little time didn’t exactly engender hope.
The next few weeks were grim. No one likes moving; the act
of packing up all of your shit only to then unpack it has to be one the most
tedious, morale-crushing activities known to the civilized world. Next to doing
taxes, of course.
Even worse, we were having no luck finding any townhouses on
such short notice; we were facing rejection after rejection, and it was all due
to a specific member of our household. An immense, furry member who likes to drool
all over the carpet and bark at the neighbors. It would seem that most
landlords take issue with large, Labrador-Rottweiler hybrids running around
eating people and ripping apart cars.
 |
| The face of a killer. |
Finally, with no prospects left, we had to break down and
look at apartments. Apartment living is not so bad if you’re like me. I don’t
have a lot of shit to lug around; cloths, books, and my portable electronic
devices are all I really have. I’ve never been that big into acquiring stuff; I’m not all that materialistic compared to your average American. I don’t have a driving obsession
with buying useless shit that I don’t really need; all of my possessions fit
neatly in this tiny room I find myself in. I guess it’s because I never really
see myself settling down anywhere any time soon; rather than planting roots, I’m
a leaf on the wind.
That being said, apartments are bad if you are like my
roommate. She has entirely too much stuff; while certainly not a hoarder, she
does have those kinds of tendencies. Which is why we find ourselves in our
current predicament. This apartment, this minuscule two bed room domicile , is
quite literally packed floor to ceiling with boxes, shelves, furniture, and
appliances. We have managed to carve out a narrow walkway which allows us to
move about, but it’s by no means comfortable. Calling my living conditions
cramped is an understatement; it would be like saying Godzilla is “kinda big.”
Walking around the apartment is nerve-wracking, and downright dangerous. One
never knows when some errant box might decide it wants to make my head its new
resting place.
 |
| I may need a few of these. |
In addition to avalanche dangers, I seem to have become a
tad bit claustrophobic; I can’t spend too much time in the apartment without
some feelings of panic; it’s always hot and crowded, and the air is stuffy no
matter how much of a breeze is circulating from the perpetually open windows.
So, in a nut shell, I'm stuck in a 10 month lease with a roommate who has entirely too much shit, in a ghetto part of town, paying a little more than I was at our previous place. Can we say "winning?"
Saturday, March 15, 2014
Tales from the Gym- Part the Fourth
Being a scientific minded individual, I decided it would be fun to experiment. I wanted to compare and contrast the amazing experience I had the last trip I made to the gym- the glorious freedom of working out in a virtual ghost town- with one during peak hours.
Okay, that's complete and utter bullshit; even as the words left my head and transferred to the key board, I couldn't bite back a disgusted snort. The truth is, I decided to head to the gym after work; after spending hours slaving away for them dollar bills y'all, I wanted to purify myself with sweat, sore muscles, and the endorphins that would accompany them.
I was in for disappointment.
I arrived at 24 Hour Fitness around 11 pm, and was greeted by a parking lot packed full of cars; every bike rack was occupied, and the ones belonging to the surrounding businesses were as well. "Hmmm," I thought to myself as I looked around for somewhere to lock my bike. "This can't be good."
I eventually found a spot at the movie theater across from the mall, and with a heavy heart, I tromped over the gym and to what would be the most harrowing 72 minutes of this year. Submitted for the approval of The Midnight Society, I call this story: TALES FROM THE GYM!
Stepping into the gym was like diving head first into a swamp. The air was thick, saturated with the foul stench of a hundred unwashed human bodies, each person trying with all their might to get that pump; to burn just one more calorie, to get just one more rep. Even more disturbing, you could taste the sour stench; opening ones mouth for more than a split second was like licking the invisible arm pit of a morbidly obese walrus.
And the heat. Weeping gods, it was hot in that building, which I guess is to be expected when it's packed to capacity and nearly everyone is running, lifting, and leaking gross amounts of putrid saltwater from every pore of their filthy bodies. In case you can't tell, I was just a little repulsed. I felt like I had somehow been transported from Earth to the planet Degobah, which is ridiculous because there are no transporters in Star Wars. Still, I half expected Yoda to be working the front desk, offered zen-like wisdom as each gym goer checked in.
Of course there were no open lockers. I don't know why I should have expected otherwise. I spent my first 15 minutes waiting around for someone to finish up their workout and move the fuck along so I could store my stuff.
And that was just the beginning of the worst aspect of a full gym: The Lines. The Fucking Lines.
Everything was taken or being used. And I do mean EVERYTHING. All the benches were occupied by meat heads. Every machine was being used. And don't get me started on that most sacred of piece of equipment, the squat rack. And around every piece of equipment, every bench being occupied, and every cardio machine in use was a motherfucking line.
Okay, maybe line isn't the right word. With that many people, space was limited and there obviously wasn't room for folks to stand in lines. It was more like planets orbiting a star; each exercise station was a brilliant glowing ball of luminescent glory, and hovering around each was a clumpy ball of dirt. Some as jovian as the largest of planets, others sad little dwarf rocks regulated to Pluto status in the gym hierarchy. And all eager to get as close to the Sun as possible.
Navigating that mess was insanity made manifest; even Han Solo, who has the biggest balls in the galaxy, would think twice before trying to fly through that mayhem.
It quickly became apparent that following a set routine wouldn't work; my workout regimen would largely consist of whatever machine or weight I could grab as it became available. Moving around in the murky swampy mess, I became a scavenger, eager for any scrape of meat I could get my paws on. I also found myself developing a great deal of sympathy for the hyenas in the Lion King...
I was always in a rush, either because I was trying to finish my sets as quickly as possible- a bunch of sweaty apes glowering at you is great motivation for speed- or because I was trying to swoop in and snag a tasty morsel before some bigger, stronger predator got to it first. I was almost trampled twice.
The Laws of the Jungle suck ass.
Needless to say, it wasn't what one would call a satisfactory workout; the only sweat I really built up was from the swelter caused by the entire population of Lynnwood working out at the same time in one gym.
Okay, that's complete and utter bullshit; even as the words left my head and transferred to the key board, I couldn't bite back a disgusted snort. The truth is, I decided to head to the gym after work; after spending hours slaving away for them dollar bills y'all, I wanted to purify myself with sweat, sore muscles, and the endorphins that would accompany them.
I was in for disappointment.
I arrived at 24 Hour Fitness around 11 pm, and was greeted by a parking lot packed full of cars; every bike rack was occupied, and the ones belonging to the surrounding businesses were as well. "Hmmm," I thought to myself as I looked around for somewhere to lock my bike. "This can't be good."
I eventually found a spot at the movie theater across from the mall, and with a heavy heart, I tromped over the gym and to what would be the most harrowing 72 minutes of this year. Submitted for the approval of The Midnight Society, I call this story: TALES FROM THE GYM!
Stepping into the gym was like diving head first into a swamp. The air was thick, saturated with the foul stench of a hundred unwashed human bodies, each person trying with all their might to get that pump; to burn just one more calorie, to get just one more rep. Even more disturbing, you could taste the sour stench; opening ones mouth for more than a split second was like licking the invisible arm pit of a morbidly obese walrus.
 |
| "It's the smell, if there is such a thing..." |
And the heat. Weeping gods, it was hot in that building, which I guess is to be expected when it's packed to capacity and nearly everyone is running, lifting, and leaking gross amounts of putrid saltwater from every pore of their filthy bodies. In case you can't tell, I was just a little repulsed. I felt like I had somehow been transported from Earth to the planet Degobah, which is ridiculous because there are no transporters in Star Wars. Still, I half expected Yoda to be working the front desk, offered zen-like wisdom as each gym goer checked in.
Of course there were no open lockers. I don't know why I should have expected otherwise. I spent my first 15 minutes waiting around for someone to finish up their workout and move the fuck along so I could store my stuff.
And that was just the beginning of the worst aspect of a full gym: The Lines. The Fucking Lines.
Everything was taken or being used. And I do mean EVERYTHING. All the benches were occupied by meat heads. Every machine was being used. And don't get me started on that most sacred of piece of equipment, the squat rack. And around every piece of equipment, every bench being occupied, and every cardio machine in use was a motherfucking line.
Okay, maybe line isn't the right word. With that many people, space was limited and there obviously wasn't room for folks to stand in lines. It was more like planets orbiting a star; each exercise station was a brilliant glowing ball of luminescent glory, and hovering around each was a clumpy ball of dirt. Some as jovian as the largest of planets, others sad little dwarf rocks regulated to Pluto status in the gym hierarchy. And all eager to get as close to the Sun as possible.
Navigating that mess was insanity made manifest; even Han Solo, who has the biggest balls in the galaxy, would think twice before trying to fly through that mayhem.
 |
| "Yeah, fuck that!" |
It quickly became apparent that following a set routine wouldn't work; my workout regimen would largely consist of whatever machine or weight I could grab as it became available. Moving around in the murky swampy mess, I became a scavenger, eager for any scrape of meat I could get my paws on. I also found myself developing a great deal of sympathy for the hyenas in the Lion King...
 |
| The Circle of Life sucks when you aren't on top. |
I was always in a rush, either because I was trying to finish my sets as quickly as possible- a bunch of sweaty apes glowering at you is great motivation for speed- or because I was trying to swoop in and snag a tasty morsel before some bigger, stronger predator got to it first. I was almost trampled twice.
 |
| "Move it, you damn cub. Do you even lift, bro?" |
The Laws of the Jungle suck ass.
Needless to say, it wasn't what one would call a satisfactory workout; the only sweat I really built up was from the swelter caused by the entire population of Lynnwood working out at the same time in one gym.
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
Tales from the Gym- Part the Third
Deciding to make the best of an irksome situation, our hero said "fuck it," and went to the gym in the wee hours of the morning, while the rest of the world slept. Under the passive gaze of the moon, he set forth on his trusty steed, Bike, and rode through the mostly empty streets towards that wonderland of iron, sweat, and cardio machines.
That's right! It's time for another TALES FROM THE GYM!!!
So, this morning was interesting. Nothing too strange happened, but I did learn a few things while I was on my epic quest to repetitiously lift and lower heavy objects. For instance:
1. The Police have Nothing to Do.
As I was riding along, minding my own business, heading to the gym and GLORY, I was accosted by a random patrolman. This individual with the badge was driving in the opposite direct I was riding, but felt that he needed to discuss something with me, so he turned around and followed me through the empty parking lot of the Alderwood Mall, which is right next to 24 Hour Fitness. Since I didn't respond to him tailing me, he decided to get my attention by flashing his Super Cool Police Strobe Lights and pulling ahead of me, forcing me to stop. As if we were in some kind of police chase on an episode of Cops.
Being the law-abiding citizen I am, I stopped- my instinct was to ride around him while yelling, "Learn how to drive, pork chop!- but pissing off the bacon was not my priority this particular morning. I plastered a pleasant smile on my face and waited to see what the good officer of the law required.
"Where are you off to?" He asked me with faux politeness. Because apparently, riding a bike in the middle of the night is cause for concern by the cops; I'm certain that if I had been driving a car, this little interrogation wouldn't have happened.
"The gym, officer," I said, pointing at 24 Hour Fitness, which was less than 100 yards away. I made an effort to keep my tone of voice light, which wasn't easy; my penchant for answering stupid questions with scathing sarcasm has gotten me in trouble many a time- though thankfully never with the cops. "I've got some extra energy to burn tonight, and thought I'd hit up the weights."
The officer studied me for a moment, no doubt processing my words and looking for something wrong with them. Finally he said, "Just so you know, there's a Helmet Ordinance in this county. I don't really pay it much mind, but I thought you should know."
Okay, that's actually good to know. The issue I take with it is that if this officer doesn't care about it, like he just said, why did he feel compelled to turn around and follow me through an empty mall parking lot? I'm going to give him the benefit of the doubt and believe he wasn't profiling me (it's happened before, sadly) and assume he's just bored.
"Really? I wasn't aware of that. Thanks for letting me know, sir." You see, I can be respectful when I have to be. The officer nodded and bid me good morning. Bemused, I watched him pull out into the street and drive off, before continuing on my merry way. So, I also learned:
2. I need to get a helmet.
Otherwise, I'll be regularly pestered by police officers with nothing better to do than flag down innocent bikers. Granted, I do need to pick up a helmet, but I haven't found the right one yet. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find My Little Pony bike helmets that fit my magnificent head?
3. I LOVE working out in the Wee Hours.
Holy crap, the gym is a completely different place at 3 am. During that time of day, I can literally count the number of gym patrons on two hands, and it is awesome! In the morning there are no crowds. I don't have to dodge and weave around a million other sweating, exhausted people as I try and get a decent work out.
There are no lines. No waiting to use the squat rack or bench press- which are always in use, because those are the only two exercises people know how to use, apparently- and there is no shortage of dumbbells; nothing is more aggravating than having to wait around for some overly-muscled thug to finish using half of the dumbbells in the gym at once. And no, I'm not exaggerating; it's called pyramid lifting, where you perform each set with a different weight and number of repetitions; it's an awesome way to build muscle, but so very annoying for anyone else who happens to need a set of dumbbells.
It's truly liberating to have access to all the equipment at will, with no waiting around. No hurrying through your lifts because that sweat-drenched dude is giving you the stink eye and tapping his foot impatiently. Granted, when someone does that to me, I intentionally slow down because Fuck You Chump. But that's beside the point. Not having to waste my disdain on gym goers allows me to spend it on other people who might deserve it. It's called efficiency, people.
After getting in an awesome leg workout, the trusty steed and I headed home- without incident, I might add- to a post workout meal and relaxation. I'm definitely going to have to start going to lift after work rather than before; weight training before work leaves me exhausted through my entire shift, and I desperately need to be at my peak when things get insane. Which they do almost everyday, because why should I have an easy time? Nah, fuck that.
That's right! It's time for another TALES FROM THE GYM!!!
So, this morning was interesting. Nothing too strange happened, but I did learn a few things while I was on my epic quest to repetitiously lift and lower heavy objects. For instance:
1. The Police have Nothing to Do.
As I was riding along, minding my own business, heading to the gym and GLORY, I was accosted by a random patrolman. This individual with the badge was driving in the opposite direct I was riding, but felt that he needed to discuss something with me, so he turned around and followed me through the empty parking lot of the Alderwood Mall, which is right next to 24 Hour Fitness. Since I didn't respond to him tailing me, he decided to get my attention by flashing his Super Cool Police Strobe Lights and pulling ahead of me, forcing me to stop. As if we were in some kind of police chase on an episode of Cops.
Being the law-abiding citizen I am, I stopped- my instinct was to ride around him while yelling, "Learn how to drive, pork chop!- but pissing off the bacon was not my priority this particular morning. I plastered a pleasant smile on my face and waited to see what the good officer of the law required.
 |
| "Do you know how fast you were going?" |
"Where are you off to?" He asked me with faux politeness. Because apparently, riding a bike in the middle of the night is cause for concern by the cops; I'm certain that if I had been driving a car, this little interrogation wouldn't have happened.
"The gym, officer," I said, pointing at 24 Hour Fitness, which was less than 100 yards away. I made an effort to keep my tone of voice light, which wasn't easy; my penchant for answering stupid questions with scathing sarcasm has gotten me in trouble many a time- though thankfully never with the cops. "I've got some extra energy to burn tonight, and thought I'd hit up the weights."
The officer studied me for a moment, no doubt processing my words and looking for something wrong with them. Finally he said, "Just so you know, there's a Helmet Ordinance in this county. I don't really pay it much mind, but I thought you should know."
Okay, that's actually good to know. The issue I take with it is that if this officer doesn't care about it, like he just said, why did he feel compelled to turn around and follow me through an empty mall parking lot? I'm going to give him the benefit of the doubt and believe he wasn't profiling me (it's happened before, sadly) and assume he's just bored.
"Really? I wasn't aware of that. Thanks for letting me know, sir." You see, I can be respectful when I have to be. The officer nodded and bid me good morning. Bemused, I watched him pull out into the street and drive off, before continuing on my merry way. So, I also learned:
2. I need to get a helmet.
Otherwise, I'll be regularly pestered by police officers with nothing better to do than flag down innocent bikers. Granted, I do need to pick up a helmet, but I haven't found the right one yet. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find My Little Pony bike helmets that fit my magnificent head?
 |
| The streamers will make my bike go faster. |
3. I LOVE working out in the Wee Hours.
Holy crap, the gym is a completely different place at 3 am. During that time of day, I can literally count the number of gym patrons on two hands, and it is awesome! In the morning there are no crowds. I don't have to dodge and weave around a million other sweating, exhausted people as I try and get a decent work out.
There are no lines. No waiting to use the squat rack or bench press- which are always in use, because those are the only two exercises people know how to use, apparently- and there is no shortage of dumbbells; nothing is more aggravating than having to wait around for some overly-muscled thug to finish using half of the dumbbells in the gym at once. And no, I'm not exaggerating; it's called pyramid lifting, where you perform each set with a different weight and number of repetitions; it's an awesome way to build muscle, but so very annoying for anyone else who happens to need a set of dumbbells.
 |
| All of these are being used by one guy. |
It's truly liberating to have access to all the equipment at will, with no waiting around. No hurrying through your lifts because that sweat-drenched dude is giving you the stink eye and tapping his foot impatiently. Granted, when someone does that to me, I intentionally slow down because Fuck You Chump. But that's beside the point. Not having to waste my disdain on gym goers allows me to spend it on other people who might deserve it. It's called efficiency, people.
After getting in an awesome leg workout, the trusty steed and I headed home- without incident, I might add- to a post workout meal and relaxation. I'm definitely going to have to start going to lift after work rather than before; weight training before work leaves me exhausted through my entire shift, and I desperately need to be at my peak when things get insane. Which they do almost everyday, because why should I have an easy time? Nah, fuck that.
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Untenable Circumstances
For the past year or so, I've experienced a growing sense of dissatisfaction. Not the general frustrations that this wonderful world manages to conjurer up. No, I mean a specific, elusive something or lack of something that has been festering in the back of my mind, growing like mold on the loaf of 100% whole wheat bread you bought and promptly forgot about because you aren't in the mood for sandwiches.
I didn't finally notice it until an opportunity came up at work. A few new shifts had opened up, and one of them was PERFECT. 8:30am to 5pm, Tuesday-Friday. With that shift, I could work and then have enough day left over for an actually social life! I could go out at night and see movies or dance or whatever folks do in the evenings. Plus, I would have the weekends off, which means that I could interact with other people during the times they're off work. In addition, working 32 hours would qualify me for benefits- medical and dental insurance would be mine!
Eagerly, I informed my boss of my desire- nay need - for this shift.
Of course I didn't get it.
No indeed. You see, shift changes are on a seniority basis- the longer you've been there, the more likely you get the shift. Almost everyone wants to work normal, human hours, mostly for the same reasons I mentioned. And I'm one of the newest employees...
So yeah, I didn't get it. And it gets worse. Instead of what I actually wanted, I instead got the least desirable shift out of the options presented to me. I shall have my long coveted 32 hours and the nifty benefits that entails. But I'm still stuck working nights, and I lose out on my Sunday. That basically means I have no weekend, and what little social interactions I have will wither faster than my manhood dipped in ice water.
As vexing as that is, I'll get over it. No, the real pain isn't from that kick in the crotch, but rather the two painfully throbbing aftershocks it compels me to endure.
1. It has forced me to realize just how dissatisfied I am having my nights taken up by work. I've been working evenings for about 4 years now, and I don't like it. By the time I get off work, the general populace is safely tucked into their beds, experiencing blissful dreams about puppies or vacations or boobs. I'm usually dragging myself off to dreamland by the time those same people are waking up and heading to work.
Now I suppose I could go to sleep when I get home from work. That would allow me some potential social interactions while the sun is in the sky. But that presents its own problems; I would be pooped by the time I went to my long, eight hour shift at my somewhat stressful job, and being tired when I'm at work is a special kind of Hell. And it still wouldn't solve the problem of doing fun activities with like minded individuals ( or friends, as they are sometimes called), because I would be going to work when they are getting off.
2. With the realization of how much I hate evening shifts came recognition of why I hate them. As long as I'm stuck working late, I will never be able to realistically pursue my acting career. For that was the ultimate goal of moving away from Alaska; I should be out there performing. Instead, I've let the banal trivialities of the day to day grind bog me down as if I were trudging through the murkiest quagmire imaginable.
Too much of theatre happens at night; auditions, rehearsals, and the actual performances happen at night, with few exceptions. It's basically impossible to get back in the game with my current schedule. And that just won't do.
Finding good paying employment was supposed to be just a stepping stone towards my eventual goal- a means to an end. Somehow, I got sidetracked, and the goal became obfuscated by a myriad of annoying minutiae, buzzing around my head like gnats.
As I lay here, on the ground in the fetal position, clutching futilely at nuts smashed into ruined oblivion, I can't help but ponder the issue. I'm faced with a quandary. What do you do when the means no longer supports the end, but instead interferes with it?
 |
| Kind of like this. |
I didn't finally notice it until an opportunity came up at work. A few new shifts had opened up, and one of them was PERFECT. 8:30am to 5pm, Tuesday-Friday. With that shift, I could work and then have enough day left over for an actually social life! I could go out at night and see movies or dance or whatever folks do in the evenings. Plus, I would have the weekends off, which means that I could interact with other people during the times they're off work. In addition, working 32 hours would qualify me for benefits- medical and dental insurance would be mine!
Eagerly, I informed my boss of my desire- nay need - for this shift.
Of course I didn't get it.
No indeed. You see, shift changes are on a seniority basis- the longer you've been there, the more likely you get the shift. Almost everyone wants to work normal, human hours, mostly for the same reasons I mentioned. And I'm one of the newest employees...
So yeah, I didn't get it. And it gets worse. Instead of what I actually wanted, I instead got the least desirable shift out of the options presented to me. I shall have my long coveted 32 hours and the nifty benefits that entails. But I'm still stuck working nights, and I lose out on my Sunday. That basically means I have no weekend, and what little social interactions I have will wither faster than my manhood dipped in ice water.
As vexing as that is, I'll get over it. No, the real pain isn't from that kick in the crotch, but rather the two painfully throbbing aftershocks it compels me to endure.
 |
| "Enough of the groin metaphors!" |
1. It has forced me to realize just how dissatisfied I am having my nights taken up by work. I've been working evenings for about 4 years now, and I don't like it. By the time I get off work, the general populace is safely tucked into their beds, experiencing blissful dreams about puppies or vacations or boobs. I'm usually dragging myself off to dreamland by the time those same people are waking up and heading to work.
Now I suppose I could go to sleep when I get home from work. That would allow me some potential social interactions while the sun is in the sky. But that presents its own problems; I would be pooped by the time I went to my long, eight hour shift at my somewhat stressful job, and being tired when I'm at work is a special kind of Hell. And it still wouldn't solve the problem of doing fun activities with like minded individuals ( or friends, as they are sometimes called), because I would be going to work when they are getting off.
2. With the realization of how much I hate evening shifts came recognition of why I hate them. As long as I'm stuck working late, I will never be able to realistically pursue my acting career. For that was the ultimate goal of moving away from Alaska; I should be out there performing. Instead, I've let the banal trivialities of the day to day grind bog me down as if I were trudging through the murkiest quagmire imaginable.
 |
| Well, almost the murkiest quagmire... |
Too much of theatre happens at night; auditions, rehearsals, and the actual performances happen at night, with few exceptions. It's basically impossible to get back in the game with my current schedule. And that just won't do.
Finding good paying employment was supposed to be just a stepping stone towards my eventual goal- a means to an end. Somehow, I got sidetracked, and the goal became obfuscated by a myriad of annoying minutiae, buzzing around my head like gnats.
As I lay here, on the ground in the fetal position, clutching futilely at nuts smashed into ruined oblivion, I can't help but ponder the issue. I'm faced with a quandary. What do you do when the means no longer supports the end, but instead interferes with it?
 |
| This about sums it up. |
Friday, January 10, 2014
Sick, tired, and restless.
I called in sick to work today. I woke up and just felt...icky. A light pounding in my head, right behind the eyes, accompanied by a sort of queasy sensation radiating from my gut. It isn't that bad; I probably could have made it in to work, but I honestly didn't want to chance it; illness is born and festers in that tiny little sick box that I work in; at any time, four to seven human beings sit in relatively close quarters, breathing the same air, coughing and sneezing everywhere, and touching stuff. All the hand sanitizer in the world couldn't prevent illness from spreading around in that room.
I could have gone in today. But being the reasonably intelligent individual that I am, I decided my health (and that of my co-workers) is more important. So I stayed home, buried myself in a thick blanket, and alternated between some light reading and napping. The down side is I'll probably be up all night, and I will be going in to work tomorrow; being one of the working poor, I have little choice in the matter.
Still, I find myself being in the vexing situation of being tired and feeling yucky, yet also restless; I desperately want to move about and do stuff, but I find that getting out of bed drains me of energy faster than a suitable metaphor involving an activity that's overly taxing.
But seeing as we've entered the second week of the new year, and I'm bored and restless, I figured I'd choke back my urge to vomit, ignore the minor aches and pains, sit down and write. And today's subject is *drum roll*... an update on my resolutions!!
I know, I know, I already did an entry talking about the various goals I'll probably crash and burn. Well, tough. It's my blog and I'll be repetitive if I want to!
I've decided the best way to keep myself on track is to regularly post updates on this here blog. That's right kids, you'll be hearing me drone on and on and on and on about the same subjects! Cool, right? So basically I'll be doing what every other blog does. Original, I know. I'm known far and wide for my awesome creativity and uniqueness.
So...
I've completed my first week back in the gym. Not having been in some months, I've naturally noticed a decrease in strength and endurance. I've decided to ease back into being a gym rat, and my workouts this first week have reflected that; I'm really trying to focus on proper form and building a solid foundation before I get heavily into it.
For this first month or so, I'm going to hit every major muscle group once a week, and have a single day of light cardio. I'll be going lighter than I normally would to get my muscles back into it, as well as to solidify my form.
One particular issue I will be devoting much of my attention to (outside of melting down the rolls of flab I'm carrying) are my hips and core. I have what I'd like to refer to as Old Man Hips; my poor hip flexors have always been weak, puny things. Even as a child, I found sitting cross legged uncomfortable. As an adult who spends the majority of his time sitting down, it's naturally gotten even worse; eight hours spent in a chair at work, followed by several more hours spent in front of a computer or 360 or PS3 has absolutely ruined my hips.
Now whenever I stand, I can feel my glutes tensed up, trying to compensate for the fact that my hip flexors and core are too weak to keep me standing straight. Which, by the way, I don't do; I notice myself leaning forward whenever I'm distracted, and have to consciously adjust my posture.
I'm short enough. I don't need to lose a few precious inches by having a perpetual slouch. And don't forget the inevitable back issues if this keep up.
So yeah, that's fun!
I'm also pleased to report that I've been following through another of my resolutions and writing more. I've finally gotten around to finishing up a short story that's been gathering dust on my hard drive. Well, not finishing so much as working on it. But hey, baby steps. It'll get done sooner or later. I hope.
Okay, that's not very encouraging. I'm trying, dammit.
I could have gone in today. But being the reasonably intelligent individual that I am, I decided my health (and that of my co-workers) is more important. So I stayed home, buried myself in a thick blanket, and alternated between some light reading and napping. The down side is I'll probably be up all night, and I will be going in to work tomorrow; being one of the working poor, I have little choice in the matter.
Still, I find myself being in the vexing situation of being tired and feeling yucky, yet also restless; I desperately want to move about and do stuff, but I find that getting out of bed drains me of energy faster than a suitable metaphor involving an activity that's overly taxing.
 |
| Yo. |
But seeing as we've entered the second week of the new year, and I'm bored and restless, I figured I'd choke back my urge to vomit, ignore the minor aches and pains, sit down and write. And today's subject is *drum roll*... an update on my resolutions!!
 |
| "Animal showed up for this?!" |
I know, I know, I already did an entry talking about the various goals I'll probably crash and burn. Well, tough. It's my blog and I'll be repetitive if I want to!
I've decided the best way to keep myself on track is to regularly post updates on this here blog. That's right kids, you'll be hearing me drone on and on and on and on about the same subjects! Cool, right? So basically I'll be doing what every other blog does. Original, I know. I'm known far and wide for my awesome creativity and uniqueness.
So...
I've completed my first week back in the gym. Not having been in some months, I've naturally noticed a decrease in strength and endurance. I've decided to ease back into being a gym rat, and my workouts this first week have reflected that; I'm really trying to focus on proper form and building a solid foundation before I get heavily into it.
For this first month or so, I'm going to hit every major muscle group once a week, and have a single day of light cardio. I'll be going lighter than I normally would to get my muscles back into it, as well as to solidify my form.
One particular issue I will be devoting much of my attention to (outside of melting down the rolls of flab I'm carrying) are my hips and core. I have what I'd like to refer to as Old Man Hips; my poor hip flexors have always been weak, puny things. Even as a child, I found sitting cross legged uncomfortable. As an adult who spends the majority of his time sitting down, it's naturally gotten even worse; eight hours spent in a chair at work, followed by several more hours spent in front of a computer or 360 or PS3 has absolutely ruined my hips.
Now whenever I stand, I can feel my glutes tensed up, trying to compensate for the fact that my hip flexors and core are too weak to keep me standing straight. Which, by the way, I don't do; I notice myself leaning forward whenever I'm distracted, and have to consciously adjust my posture.
 |
| "Me too!" |
I'm short enough. I don't need to lose a few precious inches by having a perpetual slouch. And don't forget the inevitable back issues if this keep up.
So yeah, that's fun!
I'm also pleased to report that I've been following through another of my resolutions and writing more. I've finally gotten around to finishing up a short story that's been gathering dust on my hard drive. Well, not finishing so much as working on it. But hey, baby steps. It'll get done sooner or later. I hope.
Okay, that's not very encouraging. I'm trying, dammit.
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
Evolve Or Die
First off, let me get the obligatory Happy New Year cheer out of the way:
There. Now that that's done with, we can get to the real reason I'm writing this particular blog entry; for that matter, the real reason people get so excited and festive about this time of year, every year, since humanity started tracking and recording the passage of time:
No, not booze. That's a close second.
The New Year means it's time to make Resolutions! And everyone loves making those. Literally millions of people go through this fun ritual each year. They sit down, faces frozen in a thoughtful frown while they pensively review their lives and what needs to be eliminated, altered, or improved, and how to go about it. Once they've pinpointed those niggling little wrinkles in the glorious tapestry of their lives, they stand up proudly and declare to themselves and the universe at large: "This year, I will do/change ----- !"
And they'll mean it
But more often than not, that drive, that energy will fizzle out faster than your brain cells at a political debate; I estimate that by the end of January, 83% of all New Year's Resolutions will have been swept under the rug as energy and drive are overcome by the banality of 9 to 5 jobs, picking the kids up from school, or the fact that you're a lazy git with no ambition.
Wow, that came out a lot more gloomy than I intended. Believe it or not, pointing out the failings of others is not my goal in this particular entry (that comes later); rather, I'm laying out the grim cycle of Declare and Fail that plagues many individuals at this time of year, myself included. My purpose isn't to deride and mock, but rather to remind myself of just what can very easily happen.
For this year I have a large number of resolutions, and I want, no, I need them to succeed. Because 2013 sucked. This past year has sucked so very hard, and a lot of it had to do with my own failings. Not all of it; cruel circumstance and a staggering amount of outside forces have played their hand. But in the end, I can only blame myself.
The grim truth of the matter is that I cannot continue on as I have been. Changes need to be made, old patterns need to be revised, and I need a new outlook. Because I'm rapidly approaching a point at which the nihilistic tendencies that wiggle about in the back of my mind will gain a solid foothold, and I'll be done. Not suicidal or any of that nonsense, but something fairly close: numbly living day to day with no dreams or ambitions, waiting for the end to come.
Okay, that came out sounding even worse than my resolution diatribe; melodrama personally makes my teeth ache, but that doesn't seem to stop me from doing it. But that actually provides me with the perfect segue to the next part: the listing of some of my resolutions! Damn, I'm a genius!
My Resolutions:
Enough of the Melodrama- I don't think I need to go into too much detail, since I just demonstrated how tiresome this habit of mine can be; I'm sure all who have known me for a while will be grateful for this resolution.
Vaguebooking- As defined by Urban Dictionary, "An intentionally vague Facebook status update that prompts friends to ask what's going on." I'm sure I'm guilty of doing this a time or two, but I see it all the time on Facebook, as well as emails, texts, and in personal conversations. I hate that shit. From now on, I'm not doing that and I will no longer respond to it; I'm not a fish, you don't need to use bait in order to talk to me about something. If you want to talk, let's talk. But opening statements like "here we go again," or "that was weird" will go unanswered.
Getting in Shape- Let's do a maths equation, you guys! What does mindless snacking + depression + a job where I sit for 8 hours add up to? The answer is some serious SANTA BELLY. You'll notice the words are big and black, just like my body right now; I had to go out and buy new pants because I can't fit into my others pairs. I've also noticed that I'm a little out of breath when I climb the steps. Make no mistake, this is a problem. Gaining a pound here or there is one thing, but I've let things go too far; no matter what I wear, my stomach sticks out like Eddie Murphy at a Klan meeting.
The Write Stuff- I've got accept that fact that my muse is not going to actually do its job and rain inspiration down on me; at this point, I'm not even sure she's still around. For all I know, that bitch is cheating on me with some other struggling creative type; she and that other loser's muse are probably in the middle of a fantastic creative sex orgy, squeezing out ideas the way the Octomom births children.
So I need to cut my loses and accept the fact that I'll actually have to *work* at being a good writer. Lame.
Get a Life- To say that I have a case of Cabin Fever would be an understatement; my reclusive habits have reached an all time high. My excursions for the past year have mostly been limited to going to work or grocery shopping. What few friends I have in this town, I see infrequently. Obviously, this is not healthy.
So, I'm going to get out of the house more. Maybe pursue a hobby or several that I've been thinking about. Hell, maybe even do some acting.
So to wrap this up, let me just say that changes are on the horizon. This year is going to be great! Because I am going to force greatness down its throat the way you had to choke down your veggies as a child. 2014 is going to complain about the taste and make faces, but it will eat its damn greens. Or it will be eating my fist as I punch it in the mouth.
| HAPPY NEW YEAR!! |
There. Now that that's done with, we can get to the real reason I'm writing this particular blog entry; for that matter, the real reason people get so excited and festive about this time of year, every year, since humanity started tracking and recording the passage of time:
No, not booze. That's a close second.
The New Year means it's time to make Resolutions! And everyone loves making those. Literally millions of people go through this fun ritual each year. They sit down, faces frozen in a thoughtful frown while they pensively review their lives and what needs to be eliminated, altered, or improved, and how to go about it. Once they've pinpointed those niggling little wrinkles in the glorious tapestry of their lives, they stand up proudly and declare to themselves and the universe at large: "This year, I will do/change ----- !"
And they'll mean it
But more often than not, that drive, that energy will fizzle out faster than your brain cells at a political debate; I estimate that by the end of January, 83% of all New Year's Resolutions will have been swept under the rug as energy and drive are overcome by the banality of 9 to 5 jobs, picking the kids up from school, or the fact that you're a lazy git with no ambition.
Wow, that came out a lot more gloomy than I intended. Believe it or not, pointing out the failings of others is not my goal in this particular entry (that comes later); rather, I'm laying out the grim cycle of Declare and Fail that plagues many individuals at this time of year, myself included. My purpose isn't to deride and mock, but rather to remind myself of just what can very easily happen.
For this year I have a large number of resolutions, and I want, no, I need them to succeed. Because 2013 sucked. This past year has sucked so very hard, and a lot of it had to do with my own failings. Not all of it; cruel circumstance and a staggering amount of outside forces have played their hand. But in the end, I can only blame myself.
The grim truth of the matter is that I cannot continue on as I have been. Changes need to be made, old patterns need to be revised, and I need a new outlook. Because I'm rapidly approaching a point at which the nihilistic tendencies that wiggle about in the back of my mind will gain a solid foothold, and I'll be done. Not suicidal or any of that nonsense, but something fairly close: numbly living day to day with no dreams or ambitions, waiting for the end to come.
Okay, that came out sounding even worse than my resolution diatribe; melodrama personally makes my teeth ache, but that doesn't seem to stop me from doing it. But that actually provides me with the perfect segue to the next part: the listing of some of my resolutions! Damn, I'm a genius!
My Resolutions:
Enough of the Melodrama- I don't think I need to go into too much detail, since I just demonstrated how tiresome this habit of mine can be; I'm sure all who have known me for a while will be grateful for this resolution.
Vaguebooking- As defined by Urban Dictionary, "An intentionally vague Facebook status update that prompts friends to ask what's going on." I'm sure I'm guilty of doing this a time or two, but I see it all the time on Facebook, as well as emails, texts, and in personal conversations. I hate that shit. From now on, I'm not doing that and I will no longer respond to it; I'm not a fish, you don't need to use bait in order to talk to me about something. If you want to talk, let's talk. But opening statements like "here we go again," or "that was weird" will go unanswered.
Getting in Shape- Let's do a maths equation, you guys! What does mindless snacking + depression + a job where I sit for 8 hours add up to? The answer is some serious SANTA BELLY. You'll notice the words are big and black, just like my body right now; I had to go out and buy new pants because I can't fit into my others pairs. I've also noticed that I'm a little out of breath when I climb the steps. Make no mistake, this is a problem. Gaining a pound here or there is one thing, but I've let things go too far; no matter what I wear, my stomach sticks out like Eddie Murphy at a Klan meeting.
 |
| "Hi there!" |
The Write Stuff- I've got accept that fact that my muse is not going to actually do its job and rain inspiration down on me; at this point, I'm not even sure she's still around. For all I know, that bitch is cheating on me with some other struggling creative type; she and that other loser's muse are probably in the middle of a fantastic creative sex orgy, squeezing out ideas the way the Octomom births children.
 |
| She's full of ideas. |
So I need to cut my loses and accept the fact that I'll actually have to *work* at being a good writer. Lame.
Get a Life- To say that I have a case of Cabin Fever would be an understatement; my reclusive habits have reached an all time high. My excursions for the past year have mostly been limited to going to work or grocery shopping. What few friends I have in this town, I see infrequently. Obviously, this is not healthy.
So, I'm going to get out of the house more. Maybe pursue a hobby or several that I've been thinking about. Hell, maybe even do some acting.
So to wrap this up, let me just say that changes are on the horizon. This year is going to be great! Because I am going to force greatness down its throat the way you had to choke down your veggies as a child. 2014 is going to complain about the taste and make faces, but it will eat its damn greens. Or it will be eating my fist as I punch it in the mouth.
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