Dead-end job. I feel a pivotal moment approaching. Sometimes I get this sudden jolt of adrenaline. It seems to come when I’m just sitting and staring—especially when I want to be anywhere but here. I picture myself standing up in an epiphanous rage, puffing out my chest, turning to the door, and running the hell out of this place. Then the realist in me says, “Hello. You can snap out of it now. You’re still sitting and staring. You’re not going anywhere. Are you? (Painfully sarcastic)”. Then in an attempt to defy my inner realist I shout, “Yes I am…going…somewhere (Painfully awkward).” I look down at my dress shoes wishing I had worn my running shoes that I coincidentally never use for running—maybe for casual Fridays, a quick run (and by run I mean drive) to pick up a gallon of milk, or maybe a brisk walk, but never for running. Then I sprint for the doorway, clumsily knocking over my trashcan which spills out crumbled up papers with doodles on them and half written plans for my future. I get ten feet and my moral compass directs me back to the trashcan where I clean it up and place it on that discolored spot on the floor next to my desk. I proceed to sprint, make it through the doorway and turn left. And there it is—the door to the outside world. It’s more than just a door (trying to be poetic). No…it’s really just a door. Like any other door, it opens and shuts. I don’t hesitate, not even for a second. Okay, fine, I hesitate for about 4.5 seconds, before I charge the door like a goat charging another goat, no…like a rhino charging some poachers. I slow down to the pace of careless mallrat to avoid an embarrassing slam my face into the door moment. Suddenly an elderly lady cuts me off and proceeds to take her time. Then, in one swift motion I cut her off and open the door for her. She eventually makes it through and says, “Thank you.” I take off running whilst shouting, “You’re welcome!” I make it like twenty feet (give or take a few size 11 footsteps) when the old lady replies, “Huh? What?” I turn around and run toward the old lady to reiterate my previous words. But, my long stride and intense look on my face scares her off. At this point I’m only 10 feet from my place of work. I stand and stare off into the distance, wipe the sweat from my forehead and exclaim, “God damn! It’s friggin’ hot out here!” Then I hear the words, “There’s always tomorrow,” echoing in my head. “Is it the realist in me giving it to me straight? Is it my moral compass steering me away from a rash storm into a rational peninsula? Or maybe it’s just my lazy conscience blowing smoke up my ass,” I whispered to an impressionable young boy. “Get the hell away from my son, creep! Get the hell out of here!” shouted the boy’s mother. As she shooed me away, I had an epiphany. “I will get the hell out of here, over-reacting angry mother,” I proclaimed. Then I started running. “Remember Benny, there isn’t always tomorrow!” I shouted. “My name’s Zack,” replied the little boy. I ran. And I ran. I ran so far away. Three blocks later I was gassed. It was at that exact moment when I realized that I had no idea where the hell I was going. Actually, I experience that moment almost every day. I guess the moral of the story is: If you’re not going anywhere, then you don’t have to run to get there. Essentially you’re running in place. So you might as well buy a treadmill. But, it looks like I’m exercising again. And that’s the upside.
Thursday, June 13, 2013
I think I understand pessimistic people now. Whenever they experience some type of pain, they immediately have a diagnosis for it. It’s like they want it to be worse than it could be. It’s like they’re looking forward to it. It’s like they’re just dying to be right. Whenever I experienced some kind of pain I would say, “Oh it’s probably nothing. It’ll probably go away.” In most cases I was right. I always thought it had something to do with a negative or hopeful state of mind. But, no, that’s not it. Quite recently I learned that I hate my job. Then I started experiencing pain in my right wrist. “Hmm, could this be arthritis? Ew (the excited kind of ew), maybe it’s carpal tunnel syndrome! I believe you can get surgery for that, and who knows how long I’d be out of work (hopefully forever),” I whispered. Okay, let’s pros and cons the shit out of this mother lover.
Pros & Cons of surgery on right hand and recovering on Workers’ compensation:
- I won’t be spending my days doing boring, monotonous work.
- I’ll have time to work on things I’m passionate about.
- I won’t feel like a useless zombie at the end of the day—a zombie who doesn’t want to eat brains, a zombie who especially doesn’t want to eat brains. I don’t want to eat brains.
- Some of my soul might be restored.
- I’ll be happier.
- I’ll be living the proverbial dream.
- I’ll have to use my left hand to wipe my ass.
Hmm. The pros severely outweigh the con. Well, it looks like I’m going to have to wipe my ass with my left hand. I guess I should practice. Excuse me. I’m going to get started.