I've had it

While sitting at my desk today and typing addresses into a computer, I pulled out my iPod as usual. I usually listen to "upbeat mix," for obvious reasons– so much so that I'm starting to get sick of the songs on it. Some of the lists are pretty generic: "singles mix," "on-the-go," "running music," "soft mix." So, really, any of them are a safe bet; if it's anything other than upbeat, I know I'll probably hear something I haven't heard in a while.

So, I put on "killer mix." This is one I actually only listen to on special occasions– the mix of songs that provoke a tangible emotion out of me, every one. So it's not usually what I listen to when I'm trying to do some medial work tasks. But you know what, fuck it. I've got a review coming up where my boss is going to tell me I'm a poor performer. I have supervisors from other departments sending barbed emails about me because they're convinced I'm spying on their department. Let me say that last one again. People in my own company are accusing me for spying on them, because I ask them what they do for a living. Some of my coworkers are afraid of me, others hate me. Others still send me emails saying how blessed they are that I work with them. People I used to work with call and ask me for advice on jobs I've never had. My boss told me it's okay for me to tell people that my coworkers are incompetent. Today, the Vice President from another business unit called to ask me for advice on a case at her desk. So what do I care if I look a bit hot under the collar while I'm working?

And it then occurs to me that it's been too long since I listened to my "killer mix." Evidently, I haven't felt emotions for quite some time, and it was a rude awakening to have them return.

Those who know me will know that I'm a bit melodramatic. Having said that, I felt this afternoon as if I had just woken from a coma and found out that I was 28, bald, fat, acne-ridden and working for an insurance company with a business casual outfit and a decaf coffee at my desk. Why the fuck didn't any of you tell me? 

My apartment's a fucking disaster. I haven't folded my clothes for nearly a year. I haven't had all my dishes clean at the same time since 1998 (that's not a lie; when I move, I always take some dirty dishes to the new place). I drew the window shade, which has been closed since December, to find that a swarm of flies have been living behind the shade. I keep my spaghetti sauce on my living room floor. I've completely given up, and I don't have any accomplishment to have faded from.

I had a band once, but we never made it. You know why? We didn't try. We were exactly like every other college band, except our songs were better and we deluded ourselves into thinking we were taking it seriously. One summer, we played a couple shows in Ontario, Oregon. You know what we called it? A tour. It was the only time we played outside of our home town, and the stress of the travel is what led directly to the breakup of the band.

I moved to Portland after college. I went to a city of opportunity, from a town of stagnation. You know what opportunity I grasped onto? Ten months of unemployment, $15,000 of meaningless debt, a string of superficial relationships with desperate, failed people, a three year alliance with a self-absorbed alcoholic, and a 500 square foot apartment.

Did you know I'm a writer? A couple years ago, I talked to a girl who had a published book out. I said I wrote a bit too, though I'd never sold anything. "Let me guess," she said, "screenplays and short stories?"

So, I guess I'm not all that special in that regard. 

I'm engaged. Yep. To a girl I could have married when I was twenty two, but I didn't do it because I didn't want to deal with the responsibility or investment. In four months she's going to move in with me, into this shithole, and she's going to be expecting to go out there and get a job as a doctor. I haven't done any research on how she could accomplish that, and I haven't sent her any study guides or prep work for her to get her licensure. Actually, aside from proposing, I haven't really done anything for her.

I say this all in optimism. Consider the songs that played on my killer mix: "Letterbomb" by Green Day. "Wait and Bleed" from Slipknot. "Eat You Alive" by Limp Bizkit. "The Perfect Drug" by Nine Inch Nails. "S.S. Recognize" by Alien Ant Farm. "Grind" by me, three years ago. All of those except the last one have something in common: the people performing them are in their thirties. I'm 28. There was no requirement that I die at 20, but I did. And now I realize why those emotions awoke something in me: my emotions kept telling me how mediocre I was. I prefer the voice in my head that tells me how incredible I am.

Look back at my past posts in my blog. I talk about how much better I am than my coworkers. Yet here I am, working with them. I talk about how much smarter I am than all my classmates. Yet I haven't taken advantage of my intelligence since the tenth grade. Hell, I only got a 3.8 in a state uni, and that's with only one honors class. In humanities. I talk about how great I am with language and culture. Yet I only speak two languages, and I work for people who have never heard of the European Union. You know that I work in the city where the headquarters of my old exchange program is located? I was offered a job there, once. I turned it down so I could do data entry at the insurance company. That was four years ago.

So here's the question: I'm going to bed in an hour. Who's going to wake up tomorrow morning– the self-absorbed failure, or the man I claim I could be? Is there a chance that this weekend, I'll meet a man who will clean and care for himself without complaining, who will demand better of himself, who will actually work towards something, even if that means working 80 hours a week? Or am I just typing another fucking fictional narrative?

You know what's playing right now on my mix? "Caterpillar," by me, ten years ago. The guitarist of my old band's favorite part is when I would pound down on the strings and let out a ferocious scream. By the time we recorded the song in 2002, I didn't want to scream at the end anymore. It was too much effort, and kinda hurt my vocal chords.

Update: Tonight, I said goodbye to World of Warcraft. I deleted the porn folder from my computer. I took a shower, cleaned up, shaved, and laid out some clothes for tomorrow. I ordered a new iron so I can put all my clothes in my closet this weekend. I've still got a little time before I go to bed early (so I can get up early and make myself a real lunch instead of paying $7 a day at the deli), so I think I'll pick up my guitar and work on that song I promised I'd have written a week ago. Tomorrow, God help me, I'm going to get caught up at work. I'm too good to fail. I'll be the best fucking employee they've ever had, until I know I've got real, tangible work somewhere else. I'll do everything I have to do so I can be a true professional.

Please, Bob, don't fuck this up for me.