The day I turned nine years old, I realized that I was almost ten, but had done nothing with my life. My youth had been wasted, I was sure. I felt a sort of emptiness and despair as I opened my presents. What did I have to show for my elementary school years? It was an early mid-life crisis that continued fairly unbroken for the next thirty years.
Generally, it's helpful to have had so much practice with mid-life crises. I'll think my life is over and it's all meaningless, life is just a series of days you spend behaving and then at the end of it all you go, "Fuck," but then I'll remember - I've been feeling this way since I was nine. How serious can this feeling be? I've been dealing with this shit my entire life, it's just a fucking feeling.
But then sometimes I'll veer into a more pessismistic reading and think, holy shit, I've been feeling this way since I was nine. I'm going to waste my entire life, thinking that I'm wasting my life. What the fuck am I doing? It's very meta.
So when that happens, I pick up smoking again. I tried to explain all this to the wife when she caught me hiding behind the shed in our yard with a Camel Light, but she seemed to not see the connection.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Thursday, June 2, 2011
The Wife's Diet
The wife is always dieting. Well really she's always talking about how she's dieting, refusing to come with me to get bagels and then getting drunk at 5pm and eating all the bread in the house. I suppose that counts.
But instead of making her feel better, giving her some sort of sense of control - or release with the bread? - she just whines on daily about how fat she is, how much cellulite she has. I mean first of all I didn't even know what the fuck cellulite was until she told me about. It's not like I'm sitting around looking up pictures of cellulite on people - something my wife does by the way, for unfathomable reasons. And now that I know more about cellulite than I ever thought possible, I still don't get the big deal. Meanwhile my wife was born with an innate knowledge of what cellulite is and also the belief that it is shameful.
When she's been looking at pictures of celebrities in bikinis, or God forbid US Weekly has come out with its beach bodies edition, the wife will refuse to have sex for at least a week. She won't even want to be touched, instead preferring to run the streets like a homeless animal for as long as her body can physically stand it. Then she'll come home to stand in front of the mirror, dripping sweat and squinting at her thighs.
As a bystander in the Great Cellulite Battle, I understand that there are two things which I am never to say out loud. One is that my wife may have been a fun crazy drunk in her twenties, but she was never a beauty. Fine looking sure, but she really wasn't all that much to look at, plus she dressed like a homeless person most of the time. Where is this vanity coming from? Who the fuck cares about her thigh dimples? I keep this confusion to myself.
The other thing I never say is that the running and the dieting don't affect her cellulite, not even a little.
But instead of making her feel better, giving her some sort of sense of control - or release with the bread? - she just whines on daily about how fat she is, how much cellulite she has. I mean first of all I didn't even know what the fuck cellulite was until she told me about. It's not like I'm sitting around looking up pictures of cellulite on people - something my wife does by the way, for unfathomable reasons. And now that I know more about cellulite than I ever thought possible, I still don't get the big deal. Meanwhile my wife was born with an innate knowledge of what cellulite is and also the belief that it is shameful.
When she's been looking at pictures of celebrities in bikinis, or God forbid US Weekly has come out with its beach bodies edition, the wife will refuse to have sex for at least a week. She won't even want to be touched, instead preferring to run the streets like a homeless animal for as long as her body can physically stand it. Then she'll come home to stand in front of the mirror, dripping sweat and squinting at her thighs.
As a bystander in the Great Cellulite Battle, I understand that there are two things which I am never to say out loud. One is that my wife may have been a fun crazy drunk in her twenties, but she was never a beauty. Fine looking sure, but she really wasn't all that much to look at, plus she dressed like a homeless person most of the time. Where is this vanity coming from? Who the fuck cares about her thigh dimples? I keep this confusion to myself.
The other thing I never say is that the running and the dieting don't affect her cellulite, not even a little.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Sick Days
I have come to expect that any assistant of mine will take sick days when he's feeling perfectly well. Assistants are loathe to use vacation days, God knows why. They're like squirrels saving nuts. So instead of coming to me the day or week before and politely asking if they can use one of their two thousand vacation days, they sit on their hands until the day in question and call in "sick". Usually on a Friday.
But it's fine. I am a man of realistic - some would even say limited - expectations. All I ask is that a person inform me of their "sickness" by 9:00am and cough a little when they're back in the office to maintain the charade.
At first I thought you understood these implicit rules. You played by them so well. You called in sick - on a Friday of course. You whispered convincingly, as though the pain of your illness was almost too much to speak through. I liked that touch, and told you to feel better.
But then Monday, I heard one of the girls in the cube farm sneeze. And then cough. And then sneeze again. Frankly, it was irritating, because can't any of you take a sick day when you're actually sick? I went over to tell her to leave for the day.
"But it's just allergies," she told me. "I get really bad allergies, but I haven't been sick in a really long time."
"Me neither," you chimed in, poking your head over the cube wall. "I never get sick."
I stared at you.
"It's true," you assured me. "I never get sick, I can't remember the last time I was sick."
It was a gaffe of enormous proportions, made worse by the fact that you stood there grinning at me, expecting some sort of praise or show of astonishment at your indefatigable health. Had you forgotten you had called out sick? What mechanisms were working in your brain?
It was too much to sift through, so I turned, went back to my office and shut the door, leaving you looking hurt at my refusal to acknowledge your incredible immune system.
But it's fine. I am a man of realistic - some would even say limited - expectations. All I ask is that a person inform me of their "sickness" by 9:00am and cough a little when they're back in the office to maintain the charade.
At first I thought you understood these implicit rules. You played by them so well. You called in sick - on a Friday of course. You whispered convincingly, as though the pain of your illness was almost too much to speak through. I liked that touch, and told you to feel better.
But then Monday, I heard one of the girls in the cube farm sneeze. And then cough. And then sneeze again. Frankly, it was irritating, because can't any of you take a sick day when you're actually sick? I went over to tell her to leave for the day.
"But it's just allergies," she told me. "I get really bad allergies, but I haven't been sick in a really long time."
"Me neither," you chimed in, poking your head over the cube wall. "I never get sick."
I stared at you.
"It's true," you assured me. "I never get sick, I can't remember the last time I was sick."
It was a gaffe of enormous proportions, made worse by the fact that you stood there grinning at me, expecting some sort of praise or show of astonishment at your indefatigable health. Had you forgotten you had called out sick? What mechanisms were working in your brain?
It was too much to sift through, so I turned, went back to my office and shut the door, leaving you looking hurt at my refusal to acknowledge your incredible immune system.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Drinking with Colleagues
There's something about waking up hungover and finding that five of your colleagues have friended you on Facebook. It feels good but also bad, and then you vomit.
Going for drinks with the office used to mean letting loose a little, letting your hair down, maybe making out with the hot chick you're always seeing by the copier. Now it's all fear and side glances while you remind yourself not to mention how much you hate the company, or the whole industry really, or maybe even just the world.
But then you do. You mention all of it. I mean really, you spend thirty plus years training your body to think it's okay to do whatever the fuck it wants once some liquor is in it and then suddenly you're expected to maintain your professional integrity while bonding with the team over tequila. It's ridiculous!
You can take a certain solace in your friend requests the next morning, but it's a mixed bag - you've achieved a certain popularity within the team, but also a greater likelihood of being fired.
Going for drinks with the office used to mean letting loose a little, letting your hair down, maybe making out with the hot chick you're always seeing by the copier. Now it's all fear and side glances while you remind yourself not to mention how much you hate the company, or the whole industry really, or maybe even just the world.
But then you do. You mention all of it. I mean really, you spend thirty plus years training your body to think it's okay to do whatever the fuck it wants once some liquor is in it and then suddenly you're expected to maintain your professional integrity while bonding with the team over tequila. It's ridiculous!
You can take a certain solace in your friend requests the next morning, but it's a mixed bag - you've achieved a certain popularity within the team, but also a greater likelihood of being fired.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
My Wife Is Depressed
The wife is depressed. It's one of those things. You think you're going to be terribly sympathetic and understanding when confronted with someone's supposed mental illness, but then there you are, calling someone's mental illness "supposed."
Being around a depressed person is a lot like being around a sad person, except a sad person still has to go to work and show up places where they said they'd be. For a depressed person, it's just too much to ask. They have to do exactly what they want to do at any given moment. This is the only way they can survive and fuck you for not understanding.
Being around a depressed person is a lot like being around a sad person, except a sad person still has to go to work and show up places where they said they'd be. For a depressed person, it's just too much to ask. They have to do exactly what they want to do at any given moment. This is the only way they can survive and fuck you for not understanding.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
No One Likes the Posters
I heard you talking about the posters. While I admit that hanging visual representations of our company's core values in the elevator banks is completely fucking ridiculous, your smug attitude about them is really no better.
"I can't believe people really buy into this," you muttered to yourself while waiting for the elevator, then gave a nervous smile when you saw I had appeared behind you. "I mean," you said, "Maybe some people need this encouragement…" I stared at you and we rode to the lobby in silence.
While I can almost appreciate your point of view as I too sometimes feel that I am the only sane one here, I am not nearly egotistical enough to really believe it. We all think the pyramid is shit. I would bet you that even the guy who designed it, thinks it is shit. There is probably one person in the entire company who doesn't think the pyramid is shit and even he has his suspicions. So your amazement at these posters' existence, with its implied condescension at all the assholes you work with, is frankly, irritating. No one believes in anything here, certainly not the posters. We're just getting through the day, just like you.
"I can't believe people really buy into this," you muttered to yourself while waiting for the elevator, then gave a nervous smile when you saw I had appeared behind you. "I mean," you said, "Maybe some people need this encouragement…" I stared at you and we rode to the lobby in silence.
While I can almost appreciate your point of view as I too sometimes feel that I am the only sane one here, I am not nearly egotistical enough to really believe it. We all think the pyramid is shit. I would bet you that even the guy who designed it, thinks it is shit. There is probably one person in the entire company who doesn't think the pyramid is shit and even he has his suspicions. So your amazement at these posters' existence, with its implied condescension at all the assholes you work with, is frankly, irritating. No one believes in anything here, certainly not the posters. We're just getting through the day, just like you.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Company Values
The company has hung poor replicas of the food pyramid in every elevator. But instead of nutritional information, these sad signs are apparently meant to illustrate the hierarchy of our company's values. It looks just like this:
But with "integrity" forming the base instead of whole grains. I would have appreciated some originality - overlapping circles or something. Now every time I leave work, I'm hungry, the shape working on my subconscious.
I have no idea why our parent company felt the need to remind us all that our core value is "integrity". I don't even know what the value of integrity means. You can be a serial killer and maintain integrity by continuing to kill people. It's a nonsense value. The entire moral code of the company is resting on something meaningless. If some inspired higher-up did this intentionally, well, my hat's off to them.
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