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.

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.

"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.

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!"

"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.

I'm an Actor!

Well, where do I begin?

"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.

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.

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 4^th 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…

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?"

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.

"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.