Job ≠ Life

I feel this image of Homer Simpson is an appropriate reaction to have whenever I think about what I'm doing with my life. As down in the dumps as I may feel, I do try to remind myself to keep perspective. I could be in my fifties and be where I am right now. I'm sure there are people who have had to start over from scratch and work well past the age of retirement. So at least I've got time on my side, for now.

What really got me thinking about how disappointed I am in myself (both in a career sense and in a personal sense) is a conversation I had with one of the guys who runs Tilt Pinball arcade. I was catching up with them and one of them asked what I was up to these days. I told him, "Oh, I've got a new job. I'm an indexer at an insurance general agency." He replied, "Sounds boring." "Yeah," is all I could say. The thought of my boring job didn't really sink in until later that night when I was over at my friends' place watching them play video games.

Being an indexer at an insurance firm is not what I had in mind for a job. Honestly, I thought I was going to be a writer or cinematographer or a professor of Sociology. I'm at the low end of lower-middle-class, a missed paycheck away from disaster, and up to my eyes in debt.

But it's taken me a long time to get to where I'm at. I'm actually okay with where I'm at. I know that in the past, I've let my job define who I was. I shouldn't do that. I am separate from my job. My job is what I'm doing for now and it won't be forever. My job may be boring, but it's allowing me to sleep in my own apartment, pay my bills, and get on with life. Moreover, the people I work with actually value me and treat me with great respect. Honestly, even though I could be more ambitious, I could be a lot worse off than where I am now.

Is life disappointing? Yes. But it's not going to be like this forever. I can always improve my circumstances as best as I can. I feel like I'm doing that with my job as an indexer.

Here's to surviving, even if it is boring and mediocre.

Saboteur

I'm a saboteur. I steadily crack open the gas pipes surrounding my heart and build up the fumes over the course of a romantic relationship. I can hear the gas whistling in the background as I start to get dizzy in my head. My heart doesn't beat, it twitches nervously, awaiting the spark that will set it off. Even I don't know what will trigger this gas bomb. Whatever sets it off only takes half a second before I can feel the explosion of heat slowly burst from chest. I look down and my eyes are greeted by a ball of flames. As the fire erupts from chest and singes my face, I can smell burnt blood barbecued bones. My lungs disintegrate. The fire burns a hole into my stomach and I keel over. I can't scream because I can't breathe. This is what happens every time.

Hallway Surreality

I'll set up the scene:

An unemployed, somewhat bored Tom is sitting in his apartment, browsing the Internet, listening to music, when a light tap at the door perks his ears up.

A tall, thin, white man with a dark winter coat and a black beanie, peers at with his pale, but piercing blue eyes at me.

He apologizes for bothering me and explains to me that he's my neighbor's cousin from Nebraska. I guess I had heard him earlier because he was talking loudly in my neighbor's apartment.

The man brings his hand out and I shake it. He repeats his apology and again says he's my neighbor's cousin. I'm getting a weird vibe from this guy.

He tells me that he's leaving and that he wanted to give me his cousin's spare set of keys. I say, 'Okay, sure.' He hands them to me and then says, 'I better check with my cousin. I'll call him.' I ask where my neighbor is and the man replies, 'I think he's at class.'

The man pulls out his cell phone from his pocket. The screen is cracked. He dials and puts it on speaker.

I look down and see the neck and bottle cap of a brown glass beer bottle sticking out of his jacket pocket.

Two rings later my neighbor picks up the phone.

'Hey, man,' my neighbor says, his voice somewhat distorted over speaker phone.

'Hey, so I'm leaving. I was going to leave your keys with your neighbor.'

'What? No, I'll be home in like ten minutes. Did you give him the keys already?'

'Yeah, but we're standing in the hallway right now.'

'Just - I'll be home in ten minutes.'

'Okay.'

'Okay, bye.'

I hand the keys back to this guy and I start to turn away. Out of the blue he asks very enthusiastically, 'Do you play XBOX?' He asks it in a way a shy kid who wants to hang out with you and builds up the courage to ask, but it comes out a bit overly friendly.

He pulls out the beers in his jacket pocket and sets them on the floor.

I say, 'I just have a PS3.'

'Oh, what games do you play?'

I think for a few seconds. I've mostly been using the PS3 as a Netflix machine. I tell him, 'Well, the last game I played on it was The Last of Us.'

A moment of silence.

I break the ice. 'I've been replaying Resident Evil 4 though.'

He smiles, 'Oh, cool, is that a two-player game?' Again, he asks it as if he wants to hang out and play video games and be my friend.

'I don't think so, I think it's only single player.'

The guy apologizes again for bothering me. He reaches down grabs one of the bottles of beer and hands it to me. I hold it and the label says, Fat Tire.

'Oh, thanks, but I don't like beer. I'm more of whiskey guy myself.'

He laughs. He apologizes again. He shakes my hand again. I think he's high or drunk or something.

So I ask, 'Are you okay?'

He replies, 'Yeah, do I sound weird?'

'Well, I'm wondering if you've had something strong to drink recently or had smoked something.'

He looks worried, 'Oh, no, I drank last night, but is that what I sound like? Do I sound like an asshole?'

'Oh, no, not at all, I was just wondering if everything was okay.'

'My mom died two days ago.'

'Oh shit,' I say, 'I'm really sorry to hear that.'

'Yeah, I'm supposed to be at the wake today but I don't even want to go.'

I don't really know what else to say other than another meek, 'I'm sorry man'.

He starts to tear up.

I try to be a problem-solver and say, 'Hey, it's okay man. Have you looked into grievance counseling maybe?'

I realize now as I write this that this was very unhelpful to say, but I wanted to help at the moment and had no other idea.

He says, 'No. But, like, she's gone, man. Who is going to take care of the family? Who is going to pick up the phone? Shit, I'm crying and I didn't want to cry today.'

He apologizes again and then says, 'I don't need a counselor. All you need is family, you know?'

I nod. What else could I do?

He asks, 'Was I being too loud earlier? Because I thought I was being pretty loud.'

He's scatterbrained. I lie and say no, he wasn't being too loud. I feel really bad for him and I don't know how to end this conversation. He shouldn't drive.

So I say, 'Look, your cousin is going to be home in like ten minutes. You should go back into his apartment and chill.'

'Can I rock out to just one song?' He asks as if he needed my permission to do so. He asks as if he knew that I actually had heard him earlier.

'Totally, man.'

He finally turns around and goes into my neighbors apartment. I stand there wondering if I was talking to a hallucination.

Meandering Self-Criticism

It's embarrassing to admit hypocrisy. No one is perfect. However, I used to think that I would strive toward perfection, you know, as a goal for infinite self-improvement. Comedian Louis C.K. has a really great bit about how he flies across the country all the time to perform his stand-up and he typically crosses paths with U.S. soldiers. He thinks about giving up his first-class seat and giving it the soldier, but he never does. However, he admits that just having that thought makes him feel like a good person even though he never acts on it.

Video for reference: http://pocho.com/louis-c-k-flies-first-class-because-hes-a-professional-asshole-video/

Anyway, that's kind of how I feel. I'm already a shitty person. But I feel like a shittier person for knowing that there are actions I can take to make me a better person, but by not acting on those actions, I'm an even worse person.

In fact, inaction is one of my defining characteristics.

It's been three years since I graduated from college and I still have yet to put in a genuine effort to move my life along to the next level, which I've always thought would be graduate school. But due to inaction, I'm just floating in the ether, living hand-to-mouth, drifting from one dead-end job to the next. It's a pattern I recognize and worry about, but haven't made any effort to fix.

My friends and family say, "Tom, you're only 26, you're still young, you have plenty of time to figure it out." Eventually, I'll turn 30 and ask myself, "What the hell happened? I was supposed to have time to figure this out."

I knew that being in the liberal arts/soft sciences (Sociology, specifically) wouldn't have an easier end-game than becoming an electrical engineer and having an advantage in finding a job and negotiating a living wage. However, I never really bothered to plan ahead.

Hell, getting into college was one of the most passive things that I have ever done. I sent in an application at the beginning of my senior year and was accepted early. I didn't even bother applying anywhere else. I just accepted that this was the easiest thing to do and went with the flow. What the Hell happened to putting in some effort into life?

I thought buying the Math Workbook for the GRE would help me kickstart my motivation, but I haven't even opened it. The book just sits on my desk, collecting dust, and glaringly reminds me of how much time I waste on the Internet. (Oh, an interesting AMA on Reddit! Better spend the next hour reading that.).

Half my life is spent worrying. The other half is spent sitting on my ass doing nothing. It feels like I'm alone in this situation, but to be honest, I wouldn't be surprised if thousands of other 20-somethings who aren't hyperactive go-getters or born into a life of privilege, have felt this way at some point.

But does knowing other people feel the same way really help me? We're all on the Titanic, so what?

This is what. Watching someone who has come into your life and knows exactly what she wants, gets on a lifeboat, and paddles her way to land while I just stupidly watch her leave. The ship goes down. I go down. Gentlemen, it's been a privilege playing with you tonight.

I think it comes down to a somewhat nihilistic point of view. What's the point in anything? There will always be exploitation, class struggle, poverty, greed, economic inequality, and turning a blind eye to the problems of the world. How can I live and be part of that system?

On the other hand, why do I feel personally responsible and why do I shoulder the responsibility of others onto myself? No idea. But either way, I'm paralyzed with fear and disgust with others, but mostly with myself.

I just need to be okay with the imperfections of the world and let it be. Right?

Self-Indulgence (An Unnecessary Apology)

For the longest time, I thought about writing a blog. Again. I had one once, previous to this one. I decided it was stupid, self-indulgent, and eventually, I forgot the password. So it's gone forever.

Still, I put off writing another blog because I felt ashamed of how all I would be writing about would be about me, my thoughts, observations, and feelings. It just seemed so egotistical. Also, my thoughts about people caring about me or my new blog can be summed up in this handy meme:

But where did this aversion to indulge in myself come from? I think Catholic Guilt™, among, other things may have attributed to my shame/guilt complex.

However, I had to look at this rationally. Here's a list of rational reasons as to why it's okay for me to talk about myself on my own blog that you are ready on your own free will:

1. Everyone is at least a little self-indulgent and I'm no exception.
2. Writing is a healthier outlet to express my thoughts rather than force feeding people's ears with my words.
3. The Facebook is not really the outlet to use in this kind of blogging situation. 
4. I felt like it. 

That number four is a little disconcerting. Not only because having four things on a list seems off kilter (there's comfort in lists that are either 3 items long or in multiples of 5), but because I was allowing myself to do something that I wanted to do. 

The idea of denying thyself has been both overtly and covertly drilled into my head. Perhaps the earliest exposure I had of consciously acknowledging the idea of denying thyself was in Catholic grade school. During Lent season we would give something up, like candy, as a sign of humility. Or some bullshit like that.

But somehow, the idea of sacrifice stuck with me.

I've been denying myself many good things and eventually it became part of my identity. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't doing it to better myself or to practice humility. It was because I just felt like I didn't deserve anything good. When I did allow myself good things to happen to me or pursued happiness, it just was followed by guilt. Oh, then followed by self-loathing. Can't forget the self-loathing.

Eventually, my mantra became: if I don't feel like shit, then something is wrong with me.

When your default emotional state is nothing but depression, guilt, and self-loathing, anything outside of that seems weird. It's uncomfortable and alien. You see, there's a sense of familiarity and reliability when it comes to feeling depressed, guilty, and/or self-loathing. I can just sit in my apartment, all alone, listen to sad music and ruminate about how terrible my life is (it's not). I can be the martyr I've always wanted to be, bearing everybody's sadness on my shoulders. Ugh.

The consequence of all this is that I continue this cycle, I stay sad, and life goes on. But that's just it. Life just goes on with or without me being sad. That's just shitty. I don't want shitty anymore. I really don't.

So that's what this blog is about: me, documenting my shittiness, in order to minimize future shittiness by looking back on my shittiness, and learning not to repeat that shittiness. What could possibly go worng wrong?