My job is my blog. Not really. I can't even imagine being paid to write. I know I should imagine that because sometimes writing feels like the only thing in which I am competent, but I don't. Recently I've been "blessed" with a bunch of flashbacks from the two jobs I had last year in Salt Lake. They were good jobs. They were probably the best jobs overall that I've ever had. Buuut -- I kinda blew it at both of them. I won't go into the details of what happened or why or how or who or any of that. Nothing scandalous happened, unfortunately, so it's not that exciting of a story. Basically I think the winter and the shitassdumbasfuuu (sorry, mom!) apartment I lived in and the somewhat self-imposed isolation did me in. It kinda broke me mentally. Physically I was doing alright, which is odd because stressful situations like that usually trigger my eating disorder and other self-destructive behavior, but nope. (I did, however, have nasty colds constantly, but I blame that on being around those germ bags known as "children.") Anyway, I don't really know what I want to say except that now I feel like I would be much better employee and coworker and teacher -- not so closed off, more productive, friendlier. I dunno. I guess there's no point in wishing there was a time machine I could jump into. I guess all that I really can do is that whole "learn from the past" thing. Okay, okay.
I think it would be wise of me to, you know, work again. Preferably at a place that pays me money solely due to the fact that I am a consumer in a capitalist society and kinda sorta totally need that abstract thing we call money in order to do that thing we call survive. But more importantly than surviving is being able to connect with other people. Even stupid coworkers and the dumdum public. I've been on my own sabbatical-of-sorts for long enough and now I need to balance out all of this introvertedness with a few hours here and there of forced extrovertedness. Yes, I could just go hangout or join a club or something, but like I said I need the ca$h and the structure a job provides -- along with the satisfaction of productivity. I miiiight also be looking at everything through rose-tinted contact lenses. Jobs mostly suck, huh? Who would want one if they don't absolutely need it? I'm not sure what I need. I'm not sure I ever know what I need.
I probably need the open spaces of Wyoming again. Well, guess what, Meg?! You are in LUCK! You get those spaces in approximately two and a half days. Or two days? I can't think clearly, my brain is still trapped in the past. Anyway, I leave on Saturday. Damn. I have to pack. Maybe I can pretend like packing is my part-time job? And then I will pack with such precision and honesty. You don't want your packing to be done in a sloppy, shady manner, partner. No sir. Hmmm. I'll pack later. All I really need is a book and a journal and 17 flasks full of whiskey and probably my assless chaps and cowboy hat or whatever. Wyomin'!
I can tell I'm distracted by how lazy my writing became in that last paragraph. The fact that I ended it with "Wyomin'!" is proof enough that I've already checked out. I wanted to write about less snoozefest subjects, like the sea and sexuality, but I suppose my musings on such things will have to wait until after I locate that time machine and use it to return to the present. But for now I gotta clock in and make the boss proud. Employee of the week signing out.