Progress Report

My apartment is not clean, but it is cleaner than it was Friday. On Friday, it was cleaner than it had been Thursday. I think that's a smarter way to go. It's like how the gyms get packed every January– all those people, resolving to make a change. But they can change overnight, and then, after a couple weeks, they miss a workout. Then another. Then they figure, I failed, might as well give up.

I'm fucking tired of giving up. So I'm not going to burn myself out, but I'm not going to allow myself to quit. For once. But if I can just get a little farther each day, I'll be a little closer to my goal. So I picked up the front room, cleaned off the bathroom floor, and folded most of my clothes. No one room is clean, but I'm getting there.

I emailed the director of the play I'm in and told him I wasn't going to play guitar in the show. It's not giving up– I didn't want to do it in the first place. But, he asked me, and I seem to have this belief that the more you say you can do, the more successful you are. That's how I got into so much trouble at work, I now realize– every day I wanted to take on more and more, in an effort to somehow prove something. As a result, I overwhelmed myself.

Work, too, is getting better. In rare form, my mother actually offered me some useful input: she pointed out that I should feel perfectly comfortable with lower productivity than my colleagues. Management clearly recognizes that I have some skills which my co-workers lack; I should feel confident in saying to management, "I didn't close as many cases as the others, because I was busy doing all those other things I do." Keep my desk caught up, then just focus on doing what I'm good at. If they ask why my numbers are lower, that's my answer.

I'm terrible at the piano. I never learned how to read music, I never got technically proficient, and I'm awful with music history. Occasionally, I'll really make an effort to learn a song (particularly if it's one of my own; yes, I'm so bad at piano I cannot play song which I myself have written). When I make that effort, something strange can happen- suddenly, my fingers will just start playing the song. My brain takes no part in the action- I can actually look down and see these fingers playing, but they sure aren't mine. They just... play. If I get pushed out of that zone, I can't replicate it. I can't just sit down and start playing the song again.

That's my goal. It's against my nature to be clean, to be productive, to just do what I'm good at and not to try and fool people into believing I can do something else. But if I just start doing it, whether I like it or not, if I just stop trying to force things, I really believe I can get into a zone. I really do think that I can get to a point where, after I finish my dinner, my body will eventually just go over to the kitchen, clean the dishes, put everything away, and pick up the kitchen, without checking with me to see if that's what I want to do. I will just get into this routine at work where I do my fucking job when I come in, and by the afternoon I have a clean desk and I can focus on doing all those things that only I can do.

When I wake up tomorrow morning, my apartment is still going to be dirty, my job is still going to suck, and my guitar will be in its case in the closet. I have to tell myself that's okay- I'll just need to keep on it tomorrow, and hopefully Tuesday, my apartment will be a little cleaner, my work will be a little better, and control of my life will be a little closer.

Epilogue to the Primaries

For all the animosity I have towards Hillary Clinton, it's nothing like the animosity I have towards the man-hating fringe of the feminist movement for doing everything in their power to use this as an opportunity to attack mankind for not blindly handing them the Presidency. Rather than taking the common logic approach of building on the progress they've made this year, they're throwing a temper tantrum, petitioning for people to help John McCain win, to punish our country (and the entire world) for not handing over the most powerful office in the world, claiming that it was pure unbridled sexism which denied them their go-given right to put the most intolerant, reactionary, childish nominee that they could have possibly chosen into the Oval Office.

As a working class atheist Northwesterner who has a history of drug use, approves of gay marriage, and is marrying a foreigner, I don't shed a tear for the fact that a woman is being denied the Presidency. You know why? They can run someone else in 2016. I will never—never—be represented in the White House. There will never be anyone anything like me as President of this country. But if these radical feminists somehow muster enough people to sabotage the entire country in November, I guarantee you I will die without ever having seen a woman President either.

A different Friday

There are greater conflicts that come from my job– most obviously, that it's a gross mismatch with my personality and, as they say, "professional skill set." There are also a plethora of minutia that make my job frustrating. My peers are thirty years older than me. The company allows for training, but does not let you reduce your workload to make time. We are expected to work overtime when they want to unrealistically increase the quantity of workload, but we are not allowed to work overtime when we want to improve the quality. I have been asking for some basic office supplies for six months and still haven't gotten them– basic things, like a filing wallet, windowed envelopes, and a three-hole punch. The rationale is that since most of my coworkers don't use hole punches, there must not be a business need (my coworker Deb, for instance, has a large box in her cubicle, where she has a big pile of her pending cases, unsorted, no folders, held together with binder clips). In other words, they want us to mimic whoever in the office has the least efficient, least organized, most incompetent methodology.

But there is a certain tangible benefit to having a processing job– any moron can do it. It's not like I have a job classifying water samples or helping kids with autism, where I'd be completely lost and about six years behind of where I'd need to be. I just type shit into a computer and it shows up on the other end. As a matter of fact, they've created rudimentary computer programs—open source, even—that could do my job adequately. Fortunately, my company is hovering at around 1996-level technology. Their goal is to have 25% of their customers using an online system by the end of 2009, and even at that, the "online system" is a dummy system; it can't actually read the information that's coming in. So, in short, everyone where I work has absolute job security until at least the end of next year.

Which was why I was so intrigued by the conversation I overheard from the cube next to mine. My coworker Katy was just typing away, type type type, when her boss came over and said "okay, it's one o'clock." This piqued my attention, because this boss (also my boss) hasn't remembered an appointment once in the eight months I've worked there. Even when I'm sitting at her desk with a stack of documents to review, she's just as likely to interrupt to tell me she wants a new puppy as she is to actually address my work questions (true example). In short, she's a fucking eight year-old. Which is nice for me because I can manipulate the hell out of her, but makes it all the more surprising that she's actually being, well, bossy to one of my peers.

But get this– my coworker then says, "hold on, I'm checking my personal emails." My boss replies, "we agreed that you would have everything done by one o'clock, now it's time for you to go."

"I don't want you scrubbing through my personal emails," she says. "We're just going to erase the hard drive," my boss replies. "Nobody will read your emails. It's time to go."

"Just let me finish this," my co-worker says. My boss replies, "no, your time is up. Please stand up and step away from your computer." My co-worker keeps working on her computer. "Stand up and step away from the computer, now."

"Well, let me grab my things," my co-worker says. "Do I get a box, or do I just have to carry them?"

"We will have your personal affects mailed to you. Don't worry about those, it's time for you to go."

"I don't have that many things, anyway," she says, and starts grabbing things with her arms.

"Okay, we've given you plenty of time," my boss says, and with that, a security guard approaches and firmly grabs the employee's arm, and she is guided out to the elevator lobby.

A "short meeting" (hour and a half, and I'm still trying to get caught up after my training class) is called to announce that Katy is no longer with the company. That makes three employees in two months that have left and aren't coming back. One transferred, but it appears that the other two were assuaged to leave (one was coaxed into retirement, and now Katy was shit-canned). I think all three of them were positive losses. In fact, I could think of a few more that could be sifted out, who won't be. But then again, I've got my review soon. I have the worst accuracy rating of anyone in our department. I have the worst turnaround time of anyone in our department. I've taken more management training than any of our managers, I have more schooling than anyone in our entire business unit, I have actually gotten in trouble because so many people call me for information or advice from other departments that I've been accused of undermining my peers (for you see, expertise is a demerit where I work), and I have clients who absolutely love me and openly say so, leading management to believe I spend too much time making our customers happy and not enough time doing paperwork.

But I still need this job, and obviously, the job security isn't nearly as high as I thought it was. My weaknesses show up as obvious weaknesses. My strengths show up as obvious weaknesses. Why do I have any reason to believe that I will still be allowed to work here, once they're back up to full staffing?

After our meeting, I went back to my co-worker's desk to see what was left. While we were in the meeting, her cube had been entirely cleared out. When I left for lunch, she was there working, just like any other day. An hour before I went home, all that was left was a stack of folders, a few office supplies, and an ergonomic keyboard. So, I took a second to say a silent goodbye. I thought about how her being fired affected me. Then, I stole her hole punch, file wallet, and envelopes, and went back to work.

Last Lap

As of today, exactly 6 months remain until the wedding!

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.

Checking Up on the Past

I just set up my new Facebook account, and of course what makes it so special is its ability to connect people together. It found my friends fairly easily, and the "mutual friends" function certainly helps. It also finds all the people who it thinks are already connected to you, and you can add them to your friends list. What makes this especially interesting is that on the top of the "people you probably know list," there is always the same person, every time I do a search:

My ex-girlfriend.

We didn't really talk for the last couple months that we were dating (thus the break-up). We tried having lunch a couple times, but it was awkward. We sent gossipy emails back and forth at work (we worked in the same company), but I got promoted and she got fired, and thus our last tie was severed. I don't have any yearning desire to get back in touch with her, but I do often think about what she's up to.

Our relationship in many ways seemed kind of like a competition. She was originally my boss, but I was ambitious and she was self-destructive, and the tables turned fairly quickly. She's an artist, and very proud of her creations, and I'm a musician who hasn't been in a band for 8 years. I'm an academic with few friends who is difficult to get along with; she's a socialite who stopped going to school in the 7th grade (though she did get her GED and do a couple semesters of community college). When we last spoke, she wasn't working on her art, she had just been fired, and she had been having trouble getting along with her friends. Most of our mutual friends "took my side" after the breakup, though I ended up alienating them later, many of my older friends had moved to Portland, and I had a job paying twice what she'd ever made.

In short, I won the competition. It's not something I'm particularly happy about; it led to lots of awkwardness that prevented us from being friends again. I wish she had enjoyed the same success. But I did some research, and dug up a few facts on her: she is now a professional artist; she has a new car and a nice, new apartment with a great roommate; I notice on her MySpace page that some of our old mutual friends (whom I no longer talk to) are friends with her again. All is well with the world. I feel like I can continue on my own path, knowing that everything with her is a-ok.

But then, there's that Facebook page.

I can't see the page, because I have to be her "friend" to see it. But there's something in there, something definitive, that makes Facebook certain that we know each other. I don't know what it is. She is on the top of the list, above people I went to high school with, people I regularly talk to, even people whose pictures I have on my page. Something in there has my name written right on it. I like to think it's just some passing mention of this guy she knew. But why is she always right on the top of the list? What is tying us together?

If all is going well with her, you'd think I could just add her. She's obviously doing well for herself, and I'm sure she'd love to share her stories with her old friend. There's just one thing... she'll see my profile, too. And right there, on the top of the profile, just under my name, is my relationship status: "engaged." What's more, it even says who I'm engaged to. It links to her profile. It shows a picture of her. There are several pictures right there with my arm around her.

I don't know how my ex-girlfriend is doing, relationshipwise. For all I know, she's in the best relationship of her life. Maybe she's living with the guy. Or girl. Maybe she's getting more action than a freshman fratboy. But maybe she's not, and I know that when I was single, the last thing I wanted to see was that my exes were all better off without me. Add to that the fact that it's barely been a year since she and I broke up. That means I probably knew my now-fiancee while we were still together. And, in fact, I did.

Things are going well for her. I don't flatter myself into thinking I have that much of an impact on her. But as long as I don't know what kind of impact there would be on her when she found out I was engaged, I don't want to push it upon her. After all, she couldn't have completely forgot about me– I'm on her Facebook page.

A Brief History of Time

All of the following are true. I list these not to boast, but to illustrate how little control we have over our lives, and how reason and rhyme rarely come into play:

When I was four, I wrote my first short story. It was one sentence long and had two spelling errors (I misspelled "might" and "maybe"), but the grammar was perfect and it had a protagonist, antagonist, and moral. It was also illustrated (and not just random scribbles)
When I was six, I was reading at a fifth grade level and did math at a tenth grade level.
When I was seven, the charter school I went to proposed skipping me two grades. I was already a grade ahead, and my parents decided to keep me with my peers.
When I was nine, the school suggested holding me back.
When I was ten, the school threatened to call child services on my parents if they didn't put me on Ritalin.
Two weeks later I won a national writing contest. I forgot to attend the award ceremony. That same year, I placed second in the state spelling bee.
When I was eleven a special meeting was called to address the fact that I was receiving an average of two hours of detention a day (eight demerits), and the teacher was running out of times when he could punish me.
When I was thirteen I was dropped from AP math and placed in remedial English, though I was still 2 grades ahead of my classmates in both.
When I was fifteen I was thrown out of the school by my ear (literally).
When I was sixteen I was accepted into a scholarship-paid international exchange program. That same year, my counsellor expelled me from school, citing that I was unable to learn. I was allowed to finish out the semester, at the end of which I blew out the curve in my Chemistry class by finishing a test that was specifically designed to be unfinishable and scoring 100%.
When I was seventeen, I received a perfect score on a physics exam, again one not designed for a perfect score to be attainable. I was informally accused of copying, except they couldn't figure out who I would have copied from, since the next best grade was a 62%.
When I was eighteen I was allowed back into high school, provided I agree to take over various classes that I had skipped over the years, including ninth grade reading, tenth grade math, and eleventh grade English.
When I started college, I tested so high in my entrance exams that I was barred from taking core classes (as they would inflate my grades), which would eventually prevent me from meeting the requirements of my degree.
In my sophomore year of college, I again blew the curve in my philosophy class, prompting the philosophy teacher to stop grading my tests.
In my junior year of college, my professor bargained with me to stop taking her class because I knew more about the subject than she did and it was affecting her authority in the class.
After three years in college, I graduated cum laude with honors credits. I was the first of my peers to get a baccalaureate, even though I started a year later, had to take a semester off (because I couldn't take core classes) and never took summer classes.

Ten years after graduation, I am a data processor at an insurance company. I make $7,000 below the average American wage. No more than a quarter of my colleagues can be considered fully literate in English. My boss has never heard of the European Union. My other boss is convinced I'm constantly in trouble because her boss keeps asking to talk with me privately; I am the only one who gets this request. Next week, she will be putting me on probation for not meeting the needs of my job.

It may be me, it maybe the system, it may be outside forces, but somewhere someone has failed. It's not egoism– it's data.