Anger

“Despite all my rage
I am still just a rat in a cage…”
-Smashing Pumpkins

The heat kicked in shortly after. I was still ice cold on the outside but my lungs were set on fire. To cope, I tried to place blame wherever I could. I went straight to the top and lashed out at God. How could He allow this to happen to me? Was I not good enough? Did I not do enough good things? Was I going to be punished simply because I didn’t go to church enough or read enough chapters from the Bible? Even before I went to college, I had prayed nightly to be saved, prayed that I would find love and friendship and acceptance, not only from people, but from myself as well. And it never happened. Those night prayers went unheard or ignored. This wasn’t a case of the biggest miracles spinning from unanswered prayers. This was a case of outright neglect on His part. At least, that’s what I thought. What a slap in the face of someone who tried so hard to be a good person, tried so hard to do the right thing and always made other people happy. I might not have been the best Christian but I felt like I was still carrying out God’s will. I was still serving people, still loving them and wishing them the best despite their less than stellar behavior toward me. I was still trying to spread a message of hope and love to others. I gave up so much of myself to others only to have them take advantage of my willingness to please. For all of my life, I lived for other people and my reward was dying alone in a bed that wasn’t even mine. Where’s the justice in that? Where is the reimbursement at the end of a life? Where was God when I screamed His name at night? Where were those loving arms that I had heard about so much in church and in the words of believers? They were not holding me up.

What is the point of living a life to serve others only to be refused, abused and ignored by them and then left alone by your creator to die like an insect in the dark corner of a kitchen?

The anger pumped through me, literally turning my stomach. Nausea washed up and out of me and I could feel a rising tension in the area where my stagnant heart was. As the thoughts tore through my brain like rotating razor blades, I worked myself up into a frenzy. I wanted to scream until my vocal cords corroded from the stomach acid I was churning up. I wanted to rip something, someone apart. I had never been a violent person in my life but in my demise, I was all too willing to deal out some death of my own. Why not dole out the same detriment that was dumped on me all of my life? What did it matter anymore how I acted? I saw that I was already damned. What did I have to lose?  My life?  My salvation?  They were already gone.  An when those two most precious gifts are gone, you are free to follow the foul feelings that have been previously kept locked away.  It’s amazing the thoughts that will pass through your head when you feel you have been stripped from the rules and regulations of the world. You allow yourself to move into the corners of your mind that were once closed off, those tender areas where malicious thoughts marinate. The uncharted path is terrifying. Exhilarating.

There are times when I literally believe I am capable of killing. It’s not the kind of killing that is planned out, the revenge against someone who jilted me or the careful orchestration of evisceration against an ex-lover.  It's the kind of killing that comes from snapping, from being pushed toward my breaking point until I break someone's neck.  One day, someone will say or do something so infinitesimal that any other person would shrug it off as a mere annoyance but it will be just the push I need to negate any space for reasoning and that rage that has been building inside of me will boil over into me bashing someone's brain in.  No need for a gun or knife. Just my bare hands.  It feels more fitting, more animalistic and satiating to the primal perversion inside. Just me taking someone's head into my palms and slamming it on the ground with a wet crunch, like splitting open a watermelon.  Crack.  Splat.  Repeating until there's nothing more than a mound of wriggling pulp.  Just one more bad word directed toward me, one more dirty look, one more disheveled shirt and I will have no more control over what the anger does, taking over my body and taking it out on someone. And it sickens me because this wasn't me before, this wasn't what I was about before I was transformed into a pale pariah.  In life, I had wanted to help people, to save them. Now, there’s a part of me that feels no one is worth saving.

And I blame people for being undeserving of salvation.  It's mostly their own fault I have no hope, no tolerance for people anymore.  This is not a blanket statement.  There are some individuals out there who I believe deserve the best that life can offer.  I'm talking about the mean people, the rude liars and selfish thieves.  The world itself is so cruel on its own that there's no need for bad people to worm their way in and cause their own havoc.  There should be no more room made for such hate and evil and the people who actively incite disorder should be disposed of.  It's sad to know how the evil world and the evil people who live in it are in cahoots to cut down the good kids, to turn innocence into apathy, beliefs into broken dreams, hope into heavy laments.  And the worst part isn't how the deviants reach people and tear them apart.  The worst part is how the deviants break down the good people and build them up to be a part of the population that pollutes others.  Recruiting those who ridicule.  It's the real life zombie epidemic of emptying people out and converting what's left of them into mindless, heartless bodies that carry on the disease of darkness.  And maybe saddest of all is the fact that I'm one of them.

And I blame myself.  I'm angry that I wasn't stronger than the people who pulled me down.  I'm mad that I wasn't calmer in the face of frustrating circumstances.  I'm angry that I focused more on my anguish than my art.  I did everything wrong, everything backwards.  I took care of everyone else instead of myself.  I wanted God to serve me instead of me serving God.  I wanted to be a great artist yet stopped drawing.  I was depressed about being fat so I ate to quell the crushing weight of body awareness.  I am angry because I never found my own joy.  I don't think my life was very significant and I'm angry because I was never given the chance to be significant.  I mean, I had just finished school and should have began truly living but my life was cut short.  I was weak and let everything overwhelm me.  The constant heartache was too much for my body to take and it simply gave out.  Where was that strength that I should have had, the development of thick skin and confidence in myself to keep me pushing forward?  Where was the courage, the persistence, the knowledge?

I’m angry that I’m dead but I’m more angry that I never truly lived. I never felt romantic love and barely felt familial love from my parents. I never loved myself. I've only kissed one person. I never spooned with anyone. I wasn’t touched, hugged, caressed enough. I never explored the country or the body of a woman. I never lost all the weight and gained all the confidence it would take to be socially accepted.  I never did the things I dreamed of, the small wants and the big needs.  I was a victim of my small town's limitations and never utilized the opportunity I had when I finally escaped.  I was too busy breaking down.

I’m most angry about the fact that I never did anything about those dreams and desires. I just kept wallowing in my own waste hoping that one day things would change.  I never took the initiative, always hoping God or someone special would intervene.  No one ever did.  And now I'm in this in between deadness and I suppose nothing matters anymore.  I've never had an effect on anyone and as I move toward a more permanent death, I guess I never will.  The anger flows through my veins and comes out in hot waves but what does anyone care?  I am not new or unique.  No one will bother with me because they have their own problems.  I'm not the first unsatisfied customer.  I'm not the first failure at life.  I'm not the first dead guy.  So, my anger will never be heard, felt or acknowledged, only added to the giant sea of self-pity that I now drown in daily, taking my places in the water along with all the other broken and bitter bodies of undead past.

I am here but I am not.  I am trapped to the world like insects on fly paper, dead but still attached.  I'm withering away on the inside, a pain, a rage so concentrated that it bores a hole into my very existence.  I'm just another lifeless loser, a statistic.  When I was alive, everyone turned a blind eye to my bruises because they were mending their own wounds.  Now, in death, no one has time to mourn me because life builds up while death deteriorates down.  And I find myself down here, screaming for someone to save me, to hear me, to understand what I'm going through.  I'm not naive in the notion that I am all alone in my pain.  As I said, I am not unique.  I have not and will never experience a sensation that countless others haven't already endured.  But, I am alone in my own way.  While pain is universal, it strikes the nerves in everyone just a bit differently, just enough to let us know that our hurt is alienating.  And because variety is the spice of death as well as life, hitting us all in its own unique and twisted way, you actually don't understand my pain because you will not die in the way that I did.  Death is not the great equalizer.  Death is the great divider...

Denial

“How could this happen to me
I made my mistakes
I’ve got no where to run
The night goes on
As I’m fading away…”
-Simple Plan

My life wasn’t supposed to end up this way. And it wasn’t supposed to end at all. Not yet, at least. Not like this.

Death is kind of peculiar in how it will come for you. For some, it makes itself known gradually in the form of a disease or old age. For others, it’s as quick and unexpected as a stray bullet to the head or a car crash. Existence is like a bulb that dims over time or blows out in a flash and blankets everything in darkness. Sometimes, death can come from behind, give you the ol' reach around and startle you into awareness and other times it stares you right in the face and you never notice.  You catch the glance of oblivion yet remain oblivious.  We'll never know how many times we've danced with death, been twirled by its twisted hand, only to be spun out of its sights and allowed to bust a move on our own for another day, unaware that a silent choreographer just crawled on the carpet past us.

As for me, I was the oblivious one, the car crash bullet boy. That’s about all I know. I couldn’t tell you when or where it happened exactly, only that it was some time between the end of my first year of college and the middle of my third. My demise disguised itself as the normal aches and pains of existence, except these were the aches and pains of expiration. There was a constant pain in my chest that I simply mistook for broken dreams. My head felt foggy but I still had work to do, classes to go to, papers to write, books to read and lab work until four in the morning. All the while, I hurt. But, I ignored it because it wasn’t really anything new. But it wasn’t typical chest pains. It was something harsher, something beyond the normal wear and tear of being alive. But, I kept going because what other option did I have? Meanwhile, my eyes blurred and needed to wear my glasses more. I was tired all the time and started taking naps any chance I got. I started closing my blinds to shut out the light. I lay in bed as the hurt splintered off in all directions. I would perspire despite being cold.  The symptoms sunk into me and spread out of me, pooling pain in all directions.  This went on and on for days until the crescendo of crushing agony eventually slid into a dull ache. I felt something slowly flowing out of me, thick and viscous like honey but not substantial enough to grasp onto to keep it from slipping away.

And then there was emptiness.

I convinced myself it was some freak occurrence, some stress-related spasm. I knew better but I tried to reason with myself because there was still some semblance of rationale within me, a residual trait of humanity. I feigned fatigue in front of people. “You know how finals are,” I’d say as I let out a heavy sigh. Saturday movie nights still continued and I still participated. I sat around my roommates, these people I had went to class with and lived with, and realized I was not a part of them anymore, if I ever was in the first place. I laughed at their jokes and I smiled when they walked into the room but I didn’t feel any of it. It was all so surface. Maybe I really was just tired, I tried to reason with myself. I had been “on” for so long, pretending to be normal in and out of class, that maybe my body had shut itself off involuntarily. It’s hard to keep up appearances all day, every day. I gotta act normal, gotta try to be funny and likeable. But it wasn’t me just being tired. It was me realizing I was completely incapable of understanding these people, these humans that could sit and talk and create connections but I no longer understood what connections were. How do you like someone? How can you make them like you? How do you fake affection when you realize affection is foreign?

They walked to class with me. They helped me with my projects. They sat and watched television with me, ate with me, played video games with me. But they didn’t know me. I didn't know myself. I had lost what I once was. Or maybe it was stolen from me. Like a thief in the night.

A yearning that led to desperation that led to pain that led to atrophy.

I tried to bury it in the back of my brain but the truth was coming out, oozing from my skull like Play-Doh between a child's fingers. Everything around me screamed that I was not normal, that no one would understand me because I was too messed up, too incapable of making friends, of being human. I cried quite a bit back then, hiding my sobs in loud music and my tears in the cases of my pillows, praying to God and asking Him to make me okay, to restore me. He never answered.

I was alone in a way that I hadn’t felt in years. I had spent so much time trying to turn myself into something acceptable to society, shaping and carving myself into someone who appeared normal to the outside, donning a disguise so I could trick people into befriending me before my internal mess manifested itself as it always did. But, I was starting to feel that all that subterfuge wasn’t working anymore, that the disease inside of me was squirming its way out of me, splitting my skin and dislocating my jaw. It was as if I had climbed a mountain and before I could appreciate the apex, I was shoved over and I toppled to the bottom. Beaten down and broken, I looked up and realized I couldn’t climb that again. I wasn’t strong enough. I was quite literally incapable of standing up and even trying. My motivations were missing, my life was extinguished and it all felt pointless.

I graduated. I moved back home. I became a recluse. The emptiness only expanded into a void that could not be ignored nor corrected. And I told no one of the change that had twisted me into a monster, a heartless, soulless shell of something that had long since passed.  Who would believe me?  Who would understand me?  People that I once cared about so much no longer mattered to me. Art didn’t matter to me.  Writing didn't matter to me. Nothing mattered to me. I cut people out and began to rot in my own private hell.

And that’s when I couldn’t deny it anymore.  My condition was beyond sadness, beyond bitterness. 

In my eyes, I was dead.

The question of why plagued my mind. How could this happen to me?  I thought I had done everything right.  I was good and decent and didn't deserve this.  I left home to start living, not to meet my death. How could it be that the one thing I thought would save me actually wound up killing me. The irony only made the deep hole inside of me expand into an anger that consumed what was left of me, driving my body into another state of existence until I had been pushed outside of humanity and into a world made of glass.  Cold.  Sharp.  Transparent.  Just like me...

I Walked with a Zombie

i wandered this road

caked in the gravel

that chipped at my toes

and filleted my feet

blood left in the wake of my walk

sending up a scent for him to swallow

an attraction born from crimson

he came to me

and we walked together

his charm captured my trust

so I took his hand

in hopes for guidance

but he gripped my fingers

and crushed my carpals

his mouth pooled with blood

as my own flowed from my fingers

my eyes widened in horror

when i realized his were glazed over

i struggled to get away

clawing from his reach

and tearing at his face

i tore at his shirt

and as the flesh fell away

i saw the vacant hole in his chest

i turned and ran
barely escaping

as he leapt forward

in a feral frenzy

i fell into the arms of a beautiful girl

who took me in her grasp

and comforted me

my blood soaked her shirt

and she stared at me

with a gorgeous gaze

i finally felt safe in her eyes

as she kissed my lips

then tore them from my face

with her rotted teeth

a cascade of crimson

spewed from my severed skin

and i saw her eyes were vacant as well

i escaped her clutches

but couldn’t run far

for the dead were all around me

they closed in

and took the rest of my fingers

ripped off my clothing

and tore out my heart

i slipped into an undead slumber

and woke with an insatiable hunger

they took the best of me

my fingers

my lips

my humanity

now i’m nothing

but a walking corpse

no lips for passion

no soul for remorse

no heart for love

no hands for art

no head for reason

they tore it apart

now all i have

is the capacity to kill

i must, although i’m filled

with disgust

the desire to devour

is my only will

although i was dead

a thought dawned in my head

my evisceration born a revelation

aren’t we all just dead anyway?

the world will always catch up

and shut us down

like a virus through the blood

that makes us bitter

and filled with a red rage

don’t we all lash out

at everyone around us

don’t we all tear each other apart

for our own sustenance?

we shuffle toward our futures

but our futures are filled with blood

black and bitter

and we hurt each other

to make it feel better

but we're only making it worse

it’s a cycle that spreads

like a disease that funnels

through the veins

and we’ll all be affected

and infected

eventually

until we’re all torn

limb from limb

Residuary

In my last entry, I mentioned the fact that expression wasn’t allowed in my home and I want to elaborate on that. I think I’ve discussed it here before but I obviously need to reiterate it for my own peace of mind.

My mother felt like she was the only one who could show emotion. If I was a bit silly, she would call me out on it and say I was being childish. If I was sad, she’d coldly tell me to grow up. If I got angry with her, she’d get angry with me.  That just made me feel worse until I found myself apologizing to her instead of her apologizing to me, which is the way it should have been.  Eventually, I just learned to keep everything inside because to express myself meant facing ridicule from my mother.  And maybe that's why I'm so open now.  Maybe that's why I might over share in some situations.  Maybe it's my way of making up for all the times when I couldn't be silly, and even worse, when I couldn't be mad or sad.  I realized that you can't keep yourself bottled up in your body.  Yet, I'll admit that maybe I take that epiphany a little too far sometimes.

When I discovered writing, I discovered a way to let out all those emotions that had no where to go.  I was finally able to be silly or creative or mad without the fear of anyone putting me down for just being.  Over time, the writing transferred over to people.  It's not something I mean to do but one thing leads to another and suddenly I find myself laying out too much too soon and I have to start backing off.

And how about this for a leap:  this is also why I wanted my former roommate, Keith, to be such good friends with me (I know, when am I gonna stop talking about this guy??).  He was one of the first people I knew outside of my family and my small town bubble and I hoped that he'd be the one I could finally open up to.  I saw him as a potential mentor, someone older and wiser who would help me develop into a mature adult.  Of course, when I did open up to him, it blew up in my face.  He basically had the same reaction as my mother always did.  He was cold and uncaring.  Dead end with him.  I realized, despite my limited experience at life, I was actually the more mature one.  The disappointment with his attitude was all the more crushing when he not only didn't become my mentor, but became my menace.  So, then I went to that lame counselor who told me everything was all my fault so I had to stop going to him because he made me feel worse.  And then I had no one.

Sure, it's pretty sad that I don't really have anyone to talk to.  And sure, there are a lot of people who offer their ears but I doubt many of them truly mean it.  People always extend that offer but rarely ever follow up on it.  Plus, everyone else is so bogged down with their own problems that it would seem unlikely that they'd take on someone else's baggage.  My dad is made of brick and isn't easily approachable and my sister doesn't care about anyone but herself so I'm pretty much left to myself and my blog.

You could say my over sharing might be an inadvertent cry for help or a natural response to repressed emotions.  And I would probably agree with you.  Then again, I guess it goes back to whether or not sharing yourself with people is good or bad.  It depends on the person and how much you share and how soon.  Just because because I have a natural inclination toward sharing myself doesn't necessarily mean it's a bad thing.  I just happen to share with people.  I don't think that's the trouble.  I suppose the true trouble comes from choosing the wrong kind of people to share information with or maybe coming on too strong with certain tidbits.  And that's something I'll have to work on over time.  And that just comes from interacting with people and maturing as a social person. 

Ha, yeah, like that will happen.

Branomaly

I was watching the latest season of The Real World (I know...stay with me) when one of the girls said something I found interesting.  She and another girl were talking about their cast mate.  As they stood in front of the bathroom mirror and applied their makeup, they were discussing his reserved qualities, commenting on the fact that he never shared very much of himself.  One of the girls seemed concerned while the other girl expressed her admiration for his quietness.  To paraphrase, she said that people are all too willing to share too much of themselves these days.  Ask someone how they are and you're hearing about their struggle to come to terms with their alcoholic parent or the triumph of overcoming a speech impediment.  She said she actually liked it when people kept to themselves and didn't spill too much.  I found that interesting because that is the complete opposite of who I am in real life and in my writing.  And it begs a few questions:  am I sharing too much of myself with people?  Am I somehow diminishing the mystique of me by revealing more information than necessary?  And are people finding this annoying?

I think the reasons I try to be so open about so many things are because 1) when I was younger, expression wasn't allowed in my house and 2) I hope that openness can possibly create a connection with other people.  I think there are some thoughts, some feelings, some situations that people find themselves in.  These thoughts, feelings and situations might be embarrassing or maybe scary.  And when someone else can come up and talk about them, it makes you feel like you aren't the only one.  You don't feel so alienated and if you're really lucky, whoever talks about their similar circumstances might even work out a solution that you can also use.  Over the years, I've come to realize that expression is important.  You see all these programs and therapists that talk about expressing your feelings and airing things out.  The fact that communication is so open these days only reinforces that notion of expression.  We can just about talk to anyone in the world through cellular phones and Internet.  So, I feel there's been this giant push to be more communicative with others because the technology is there.  So, we might as well use it.

And maybe that's why the girl on The Real World didn't mind her cast mate's inclination toward privacy.  Perhaps she found it refreshing?  A nice change of pace from the emotional/verbal vomit that has been assaulting our senses for the past several years?  And it makes me wonder if I share too much, too fast.  This new(ish) job is actually a great opportunity to find out.  Reviewing my behavior over the course of the past week or so with my coworkers, there are times when I think I've over shared.  It's not so much that I automatically lay out my life story.  They just ask questions, which open the doors to answers, which open the doors to an explanation of answers, which most likely leads to over sharing.  I wonder if this annoys people or if they find it nice to see someone so open or maybe they don't care either way.

There's a part of me that thinks I should keep some things to myself.  Maybe I should be that guy who keeps to himself, the one who is reserved.  Not that I should shut everyone out but maybe I shouldn't be so quick to lay it all out there within the first conversation.  Besides, being quiet and mysterious is sexy, no?  There's something about wanting to know something more about a person.  Once you've found out what you wanted to know, the spark of mystery is pretty much put out.  It doesn't mean you lose interest completely.  I suppose it depends on your level of interest in the person in the first place.  I don't know.  Maybe if I hold some things back, leave some things up to the imagination, that might generate interest.  It kind of goes back to the whole "chase" thing.  People like the chase.  They chase fame and fortune and lovers and friends and material things.  Once they get it, it's not as gratifying as the desire for it.

And then you have to think of the dangers of the interwebs.  If you're too open, some of the info you've so graciously shared with the masses could end up in the hands of a teacher/boss/probation officer and that can get a little awkward.  It's one of those tricky areas.  It's information you're comfortable enough sharing with a large audience of strangers but not something you would necessarily want people close to you to know about.  Does that make sense?  You can talk about your abysmal bathroom habits or your interest in Scientology and it might make for good blog material but it would also make for interesting water cooler fodder in your office.  You wouldn't want people knowing what you're doing in the crapper during your lunch break.  I guess it's a bit weird to feel so comfortable sharing the most intimate parts of yourself with a group of unknowns rather than the people you actually interact with on a daily basis.  It makes sense, I suppose.  You're safe behind your computer screen.  You don't have to see the faces of the disapproving and those who don't like you can easily be blocked or ignored.  And those who are into what you're sending out will come to you.  It's a process of elimination.  It's a steady flow of traffic.  In real life, you pretty much have a set number of people who see you at any given time and if they find fault with your expressions, it could cause tension and future problems.

Then again, this is just who I am.  I've found something that eases the pressure of existence and so I will continue to use this medium as long as I feel it's beneficial to me and those who might have something to gain from my words.  I'm open.  I'm easy to talk to and I'll easily talk to you if I find you're a suitable fit for my fits of mad talk.  And over the years, I've pretty much talked about everything that was on my mind.  I can't think of too many times when I censored myself.  If I feel it's worth discussing, I will.  If it's not worth it, i won't.  But, I don't actively pick and choose what content goes into my writing.  It just happens to be whatever I'm stressing about at the moment of writing.  And with that being said, I'm not going to claim to be super open.  There are some things I haven't discussed (did that intrigue you?  are you curious to know what those things are??) and that's only because I haven't personally found comfort in throwing that kind of stuff out there.  As I said, it's all about what I'm comfortable with.  It's all about relieving stress and feeling better about certain issues.  And as I get to know myself better and discover who I am as a person and as a voice and as a soul, different things will come out and need to be discussed and/or vented.     

And what I find more interesting than someone keeping information to themselves is someone who reveals that information slowly over time.  It's like leaving a bread crumb trail to your brain, revealing a little more with each epiphany, peeling back the layers of behavior and personality.  For me, when I read someone over a period of time, I find them more interesting the more I learn.  Sure, mystery is sexy in its own way but I much prefer revelations.  Not only does it work for me for writing, but reading as well and I can only hope my readers feel the same way.  I mean, who doesn't want to be intriguing?  Who doesn't want to be an anomaly?  And how do you get there?  Do you take away?  Do you give a little bit?  Do you pull back in bunches of break off bits and pieces?  I suppose all I can do is keep myself as open and honest as possible and hope I'll find an audience who will find me a tad bit awesome.

Barreling

There comes a point when something happens that heightens awareness indefinitely.  Senses are sharpened.  There’s only cautious rest but no complete comfort.  In a heartbeat, you are a blood pump away from a phone call that can rip away at insides and silence smoky rooms.  Concern is undulating but never ceases.   Tension thickens the air.  Attempts at humor are hard-pressed and smiles are uneasy.

Inevitability comes upon you like the speed of a train.  Slow in the distance in one moment and barreling over you in the next.

The hardest part isn’t collecting the pieces of yourself once it has passed.  The hardest part is seeing what it has done to everyone else, the lasting effects of leaving loved ones behind.

Perturbulence

Yesterday:

As soon as I got into work, my manager asked me to stay all day instead of the three hours for the register training.  Not wanting to make a bad impression on my first day back, I begrudgingly agreed.  I'm starting to remember why I didn't like that place.  No one is reliable.  They believe in hiring a bunch of teenage jerk offs, the kind of kids who are only their because 1) their parents made them get a job 2) they need money to pay for their beer/weed 3) they have a toddler that was born in middle school to take care of.  That means sick children and prom and graduation and "well, I just don't feel like coming in today" so someone is always calling in or having to change their schedule so they can be free for Friday night football.  Which means my schedule is messed up because I'm always the first one they call when someone else calls in.

Let me just say, this is actually a good thing.  It means they know I'm reliable.  They know I'll do a good job when I come to work.  They know that I need the hours.  It's a nice gesture.  With that being said, I hate to have my schedule changed.  Like, hate.  Honestly, I don't care what schedule they give me.  I'll work morning, evening, night.  I'll work one day a week or seven days a week.  I'll go with the flow as long as that is what I'm scheduled for.  I can't tell you how many times I looked forward to my day off only to be called in.  That really wrecks my mood.  Now, if I was scheduled to work the next day, then that's great!  I was meant to and I'm mentally prepared for it and it's gravy but when I'm mentally preparing myself for a day off and I'm thinking of all the wonderful things I can do and then someone calls and tells me I have to come into work, it really annoys me.  I really don't like change, whether they are big or small changes.

At the end of my shift, my manager comes up to me and asks me to change my shift for the next day!  Once again, I agreed. 

During lunch, I went to the new McDonalds.  The one in town was torn down to be rebuilt with two drive-thrus and one of those coffee bar deals.  Because I only thought I'd be working three hours and didn't bring a lunch with me, that looked like the best option.  Well, the line was long because the McDonalds had been shut down for a good while and I guess everyone else was missing those Mcdelectables.  I noticed people looked confused as they went through the two lanes.  People were braking and accelerating, not knowing when their turn to go was.  I guess they don't handle change very well, either.

As I was waiting in line, I checked my voicemail.  It was a call from an employment agency I applied with a few weeks ago.  The lady said she had something going on in my town and wanted me to call her back.  My heart swelled with the possibilities.  And then I remembered I just accepted this job.  I quickly thought of a scenario.  If it was a regular Monday through Friday job, I could still work at JCP on the weekends.  I'm sure all those snot-nosed a-hole teens would love to take the weekend off so they can fornicate and frolic.  I'll work for them.  I'm a loser and don't have dates with girls or parties to go to.  It was pretty much perfect.  And that extra weekend money would be a great help.  Well, I called the lady back and get this.  She didn't have any work for me.  She wanted to know if I knew of anyone that wanted to do fiberglass work.

"I know you were interested in clerical," she said, "but I don't have anything right now with that.  I'm still looking, don't worry.  I haven't forgotten about you but this fiberglass is blowing up!  I figured since you lived in that town you might know some people who wanted to do fiberglass!" 

So, this tich calls me, not to help me find work, but to help her find work for other people!?  Really?  Really?  My heart deflated.

Then I spilled my sweet tea all over my shirt and lap.  They hadn't put the lid on very well and as I lifted the straw to my lips, liquid cold spread across my body.  I grabbed a handful of napkins to absorb the liquid but those cheap, flimsy napkins started coming apart from the vigorous rubbing.  Crap!  I had to be back to work in just a few minutes!  Would it dry in time?  Would it leave a giant looking stain like I had wet myself?  I haven't even met all my coworkers yet!  What were they going to think of me and my stained and napkin lint-ridden clothing?

Fortunately, everything dried up and there was no noticeable stain.  It was quite shocking, actually.  The universe missed an opportunity to humiliate me.  I'm sure I'll just get it worse next time around.

I then saw everyone I knew.  A former coworker that used to work there when I first started five years ago came in and was like, "Dude, what are you still doing here?"  Embarrassed, I explained to him that I had in fact left for a few years to attend college.  I then said, "Look how well that worked out!"  I wanted to crawl into the giant bin that holds all the plastic hangers.  I then saw old classmates, which was great.  "Hey, yeah, went to college and now I'm back here!  Things are going great.  I'm pathetic and thanks for shopping with us today!"

And old customers are the wooooorst.  So far I've encountered the old-lady-who-buys pants-for-her-male-relative-even-though-she-doesn't-know-what-size-he-is-or-what-style-he-likes type of customer.  She had me running around the store looking for acceptable alternatives to Dickie pants.  She then asked the same questions over and over again.  That was yesterday.  And wouldn't you know she came back this morning, bright and early, to annoy me again.  The pants didn't work out.  "These are a gift," she tells me.  She can't simply order some Dickie pants from our website because his birthday is in two days and they won't arrive in time.  Hm, how about instead of purchasing him some irregular looking pants that he probably won't like anyway, why not opt for something more practical like a shaving kit or socks or a prostitute.  Something he can use that's one-size-fits-all (hehe).  Then, today, I encountered the old-racist type of customer.  He was looking at suits and asked me where the suits were created.  "You thank the Japs made these?"  I'm sure tomorrow I'll encounter the old-man-who-doesn't-talk-back-when-you-speak-to-him and the old-man-who-throws-his-money/credit card-at-you.

I forgot to mention that because the schedule was changed both days, I had to work by myself both days.  I was originally scheduled to work with someone so they could help me familiarize myself with the registers, which are, by the way, new registers that they got after I left.  So, it's literally like I'm starting over.  Some of the procedures are familiar and coming back to me but some things are done differently now, which I think almost makes it harder for me because I have to unlearn the old procedures and learn the new ones.  My manger was around when I needed help but I would have preferred someone to be with me at all times.  Obviously, I'm a very insecure person with absolutely no confidence in my ability to run a register, interact with a customer or even make correct change. 

I know it's all so ridiculous and I did it for two years with no problems but I just feel a lot has changed in five years.  I've become way more introverted, way more cynical and, frankly, way more dumb.  And I feel my manger was way too much faith that I'll just kind of pick up right where I left off.  That's the bad thing about being such an exceptional employee.  People expect a lot from you.  And that's a lot of pressure to live up to those expectations.  Or I suppose that's a lot of unnecessary pressure that I'm putting on myself.  And when I say exceptional employee, I'm not bragging.  I really was one of the best employees they had and that's not because I was just so fantastic.  It all goes back to what I was mentioning earlier.  Everyone else just sucked, therefore making my mediocre abilities really shine.  I was the rare breed of teenager that followed the rules and did what I was supposed to.

And now I'm the not-so-rare breed of old man stuck in a crummy job in a crummy economy with a crummy outlook on life.  It's been a turbulent two days already and I'm exhausted.  To make myself feel better, I think I'm going to have to spend part of my first paycheck on True Blood: Season 2!!  After waiting forever, it's finally out.  Netflix won't have it for another month because of some stupid agreement they have not to release certain titles until thirty days after they've released everywhere else and frankly, I'm just not that patient to wait another month to see creatures of the night suck blood and ladies of the night sucking...well, other things.  Softcore vampire porn FTW.

Retail Hell Revisited

In my last entry, I forgot to mention that I did accept the position at JCP.  Today was the first day of training.  First, let me say that I got an e-mail from the bingo facility saying that they were not reopening.  This is twice now.  I'm glad I didn't agree to go back there.  I feel that place is going to be in limbo for a long time and there's not enough stability for me to return.  I might only be working part-time but at least it will be consistent part-time instead of irregular bouts of full-time work.  So, I feel good about the decision.

Kind of.

I really don't want to be a Danny Downer but I'm still fuzzy over returning to JCP.  I mean, it almost feels like I'm going backward.  I'm going back there and might be going back to school soon and it'll be just like when I was twenty again, as if the last four years of my life didn't even happen.  But, then again, maybe that wouldn't be so bad.

Today was training and it was a bit more intense than I had anticipated.  Some things have changed and I've gotten rusty with the skills that I used to know.  I'm sure once I get out on the floor by myself I'll find my groove again but dipping my toes back into used water isn't that much fun.  I don't know, I just feel lame.  I know I shouldn't but this just isn't where I wanted to be at this age.  I was hoping to have a good job doing what I love but I guess all college graduates hope for that and some get it, some don't.  I think it would make me feel better to know I wasn't the only chap in this position.  Well, I know I'm not.  There are quite a few people that have communicated to me that they or someone they know graduated from college and are working crappy jobs just to get by until something better comes along.  It's somewhat helpful but it's still annoying.

And everyone is new.  There's only a handful of people left that I worked with and the rest look...uh...unsavory.  I gotta be honest, I don't really have any intention on making friends there.  I really just want to earn a paycheck so I can eventually afford the equipment and software to continue my animation.  And hopefully the job will help get my mom off my back somewhat.  I brought my schedule for the rest of the week home and she said, "Are you going to be able to get any more hours than this?"  I wanted to punch her in the face.  I already told her it would be part-time and that my supervisor said she'd try to help me out as much as possible.  What more can I do?  Take my manager into the back office and toss her salad to bump myself up a few notches on her priority list?  Back off.  My mother should just be glad I was irritated enough with her nagging that I went back there for a job in the first place.  I could still be sitting on my doughy duff doing nothing.  At least I'll be getting out of the house and we'll be out of each other's hair.

Except for having to push credit card applications on people, I don't see it being too stressful.  In fact, I'm hoping it might be slightly peaceful.  As far as I know, I'll be back in my old stomping grounds in the men's department and not many people shop there.  I'm sure I'll spend most of my time folding shirts, which is fine with me.  It gives me a chance to kind of chill and think my thoughts.  Plus, I really enjoy it when I can straighten an entire section of clothing.  I'm really OCD about things being neat and orderly (outside of my own bedroom) and so I enjoy it when it looks nice in my department.

Yet, I can't shake this feeling of retreading, of beating a dead whore.  Ideally, I would be working at a new job where I can learn new skills that might be beneficial in the future.  I don't think I'll learn anything new here.  It will be more of a refresher course.  Then again, I'm not sure I want to learn anything new.  As I said, this might be a good thing that I'm already familiar with policies and procedures.  I can jump in, do my thing, collect a paycheck and get out of there.  If I'm not worried about my performance, hopefully I'll be able to concentrate on my writing and art.

Speaking of art, animation software and equipment is ridiculously expensive.  It's going to be tough trying to save up for that while paying for student loans.  I was told I could request a forebearance to delay the payments for six months, which I will be doing.  Check this.  The guy I talked to said my payments would be six hundred dollars a month!  I told him that would be an impossibility so he put me on hold, came back and said he could only get it down to about three hundred a month, still more than I wanted to take on.  I'm already paying two hundred a month on a different loan.  Mom said she'd pay half if I'd pay the other half, which makes things a bit easier but I don't want to depend on my parents so much.  They pay for all of my expenses and I'm at a point in my life where I should be capable of taking care of myself.  I'm embarrassed.  I understand that some things are out of my hands.  I understand the economy's in the pooper and jobs are hard to come by but if I was better, smarter, worked harder and was more talented, I'd have a good job by now.  Or maybe I'm too hard on myself.  I suppose it doesn't matter now because what's done is done and I just have to do what I can with what's going on.

Or something like that.

Ret(d)reading

This job thing is getting kind of funny.  Funny as in annoying like a giganto hemorrhoid. 

After the Birmingham debacle where I realized the job/apartment/real life thing wasn't going to happen and that my sister was as bitter as a used tampon, I gave up on that dream and set my sights on local work.  When I went to see the ladies from my old job to pick up my book, I casually mentioned that I was looking all over for work with no luck and jokingly said, "Hey, you guys aren't hiring, are ya?" with a bit of a chuckle in my delivery.  Naturally, they weren't.  In fact, my old boss said they had just laid some people off the week before.  Besides, my job was a temporary one that they had never even done before.  They had gotten behind on their work, which isn't surprising because of the chatter that goes on around there and so I was basically just hired to take care of the little things they had no time for while they handled the major responsibilities.  Eh, it was worth a shot.

So, a few days ago I took a trip into the dreaded JCPenney and groveled for a job.  I worked there several years ago and hated it.  Well, maybe hate is too strong of a word.  The work was a breeze but my coworkers sucked.  After two years, I was just tired of all the backstabbing and b.s. that ran amok in that establishment.  That's when I took the temporary job described above.  The good thing was my manager loved me and I left on good terms.  When she left, she told me if she ever had any openings she'd hire me in a second.  See, this is what I'm talking about.  I am a good worker!  I can do any job (within reason) that people give me as long as I'm properly shown how to do it.  That's why it's so frustrating when I apply and apply and never hear anything back, and even worse, when I go in for an interview and they don't pick up on my glowing personality or willingness to go the extra mile to do a great job.  Then again, I suppose I know I can work hard but they can't get that from a resume or from just an interview.  Seeing is believing but it's hard to see something when you won't give a brotha a chance, son!

While working at the bingo facility, I realized that JCPenney wasn't that bad at all.  I got to dress up and wear a tie and look nice and basically fold shirts for four hours.  As long as I didn't have any pissy customers and no one was trying to sling their gossip at me, I was content.  Heck, there were some days I even had small windows of time in which I could write poetry (thanks to the extra rolls of receipt paper and a multitude of extra pens lying around).  I tried to remember why I disliked it so much in the first place but couldn't remember any solid reasons.  I suppose working in a chimney facsimile and having to scrape ashtrays really puts things into perspective.

Well, the groveling paid off.  My former (and soon to be current again) supervisor said she had a position but it was part-time and wouldn't be too many hours.  I told her that was okay because few hours were better than none and maybe on down the road more hours would open up for me.  First, I had to take the stupid online job assessment test that almost all jobs make you do nowadays.  During Christmas time last year, I had applied to be a temporary replenishment person there just for the holidays.  I had to take the assessment test and failed, although I had previously worked there for two years and was well qualified for the job.  That's what ticks me off and probably why I didn't get a call back from a lot of potential employers in Birmingham.  Those stupid tests.  First of all, they are dumb.  How about asking me those questions during an interview so I can explain myself?  A lot of the answers they gave you to choose from were black and white while the questions did not have a black and white answer.  Many of the questions were also worded so poorly that no answer would ever be appropriate enough.  I told this to my manager and asked her to help me out with the assessment test this time around so I wouldn't fail again.  She did and after it was over she agreed that the questions were lame.  She was a department manager that had been there well over twenty years and even she didn't know the answer to some of their questions.  I felt validated.

But, with her help I passed and she even said she would put in for me to make the highest salary available, which I thought was really awesome of her.  Actually, she was one of the reasons I didn't like working there.  She's slightly cold and not easy to talk to or joke around with but I guess overall she was a nice lady (as evidenced by the salary raise).  She said I wouldn't be able to start until the beginning of the next month but I was fine with that.  It would give me time to process the fact that I was going to be working there again.  As I left the building, I had a sinking feeling.  All those negative memories of working there starting flooding back, yet, once again, with no real solid reason why that place sucked balls.  I'm sure all will be revealed in time.

But it doesn't stop there.... 

Wouldn't you know I got yet another out of the blue call from my former supervisor from the bingo facility.  They are planning on reopening again.  The company tried to pull this shizzle once before, which resulted in me totally dumping my diet due to a depression over having to return to that dump.  As soon as they said they were going to reopen, they didn't.  And here they are, trying it again, asking if I'm available.  "There's a good chance we'll be shut down again," he added.  Well, if the idea of going back to that smoke-filled clusterfudge of mullet-headed hillbillies and and old money grannies wasn't tantalizing enough, knowing the place will probably be shut down as soon as they open up really sweetens the pot for me.  All this after I just secured a new job.  After my former supervisor helped me fill out an application and pulled her weight to get me the highest salary within my position. 

timing timing timing.

If I want to think about it logically, the best choice would be to go back.  Forty hours.  Better pay.  Benefits.  But what's more vital to me at this point in my so-called-life?  Money or mental stability?  Sure, I might be earning more but what would I do with that extra cash but waste it on Sara Lee frozen cheesecakes and a glock to finish myself off.  No, maybe sacrificing buying material goods to clutter up my room with will be worth it if I can clear the rubbish from my head.  It's all so annoying but I'm going to try to deal with it the best I can.  Part-time work will probably be better for me anyway because I think I want to go back to school.  I will have to get a grant and/or scholarships to go to school because I certainly can't be adding on any more student loan debt but if I can afford school, I will be going back.  I actually kind of want to.  This whole real world experience isn't for me.  Not now, anyway.  I think I'd be much more comfortable sitting at a desk rather than sweeping up after a-hole gamblers.

It'll be real nice when I can find some employment stability.   

Spasms

I woke up last Saturday and went to the bathroom.  After I peed, I put my hands on my hips and dipped my head back to stretch my back.  Big mistake.  A tiny explosion of pain blossomed across my lower back, sending my head forward causing me to grab onto the sink to catch my balance.  I stood hunched over as the pain pooled to every corner of my lower and middle back and hugged at my sides.  The pain momentarily stopped my breath and as the pinching settled into me, I tried to catch my breath.  It only made the pain worse.  I hobbled back into bed and hoped the pain would go away, that maybe I had simply stretched too hard too fast after being asleep and settled into sleep, that maybe it was a temporary pull of a muscle and it would stop hurting after a while.  It didn't!

This isn't the first time I've had back trouble.  Several years ago I had lower back pain that nearly incapacitated me.  I took medication but never saw a doctor or anything.  I always assumed it was the way I slept the night before or something of that nature.  And as mysteriously and suddenly as the pain came, it left.  And now I'm hurting again, although I know it was caused by my improper stretching.  It still sucks.  I took it easy the rest of the weekend, staying in bed watching a supernatural movie marathon on Lifetime (shut up).  On Sunday, I ached as I watched a few zombie movie commentaries.  It's kind of weird how time flies when you're paralyzed to your bed and learning about undead philosophy.

The pain was better for about a day and then it started hurting again and to make things even better, I got up a few mornings ago and hurt my back again.  I suppose any progress I might have made was quickly crushed as I found myself in major pain again.  I'm sitting in bed right now, a heating pad pressed between my eighty-four-year old man back and two fluffy pillows.  It hurts to breathe, dude!  I swear I'm deteriorating.

In completely unrelated news, I went back to Birmingham a few weeks ago for a job interview.  When I was at my sister's house, I applied to approximately thirty businesses and only got a call back from one.  I didn't do very well during the interview but I was still hopeful, perhaps even positive, that I would get the job.  I didn't.  Suck on that, positive people.  Positivity doesn't work.  So, I went back home dejected.  About two weeks later, I got a call back from another business I had applied to.  They called me in for an interview so that night I packed all my junk and went back to my sister's house the next day.  After resting from the nearly 200 mile trip, I went into the interview and killed it.

The lady who interviewed me had a slight hunchback and ashy hands.  Her untucked, outstretched and faded blue polo shirt hung over her ill-fitting khaki pants.  It was a lame customer service job, something I previously swore I would never do again but seeing as I was desperate for any kind of work, I was just happy to be called back by someone.  Plus, I know customer service.  Yes, I know my writing makes me seem like this huge jerk that no one can get along with but I assure you I'm not like this in person.  I can turn on the charm.  And did I ever!  She threw the usual customer service oriented questions my way and I threw the answers back at her with all grace and confidence of a seasoned customer service associate, which I am.  Then, she told me the job would be part-time.  Crap.  I couldn't support myself on that.

After the interview was over, I was a bit disappointed but decided to use my time in Birmingham to look for other work while I was there.  Maybe go through the paper, shoot some more resumes off to different companies, make the most of my time there instead of driving the near 200 more miles back home.  But, after I looked online and then through the paper and saw nothing, I decided to go back home anyway.  Shannon came home from work and started grilling me about jobs and I realized I didn't want to stay with her any longer than I needed to and I just felt like there was no reason for me to stay anyway.  So, I went back home.

The next day, I got a call from another company I had applied for.  Great.  This was Friday and they wanted me to come in on Monday for a...wait for it...group interview.  No thank you.  I agreed, not realizing what the lady had said until after I had hung up.  The anxiety creeped in.  It's rough enough trying to do an interview one on one, much less in front of a group of other people trying to get the same job as you.  I quickly realized I would probably have a panic attack so I called back the next day and politely withdrew my application, even going so far as to apologize for causing any inconvenience.  The dude hung up on me.  I was annoyed the rest of the day but I felt better knowing I wouldn't be working for jerks like that.  I felt like I had made the right decision.  I then made the decision that I wouldn't take that customer service job, either.  Sure, I could try to find another part-time job but it took four months just to find that one and there was no guarantee I'd find another, much less one that would work around someone else's schedule.  I decided to just wait it out until I found a full-time job.

So, I waited patiently for the customer service job to call and offer me a position.  I knew they were going to call back because I was fantastic in the interview.  Now, those who know me know I am not one to brag.  I don't think highly of myself and am conceited in no way whatsoever so when I say I was amazing, you know that I was.  Well, Monday came along and I didn't hear anything.  Then, Tuesday.  Then, Wednesday. They never called.  I was dumbfounded, flabbergasted, abashed, nonplussed and, if I'm going to be honest, a little gassy.  I couldn't believe they didn't call me back, especially after the ashy lady who interviewed me even suggested me for a higher position than the one I interviewed for!  I can't say I was upset not to have the job.  I was upset that they did not want to have me.

So, back to zero.

I'm thinking about becoming an escort.  You know, for people who are into chubby guys with an aversion to sunlight and leafy green vegetables.  That is, assuming I could put my back into it.