02.05.2006
- Three AM Again
It's three AM again, and I can't really sleep. So
I thought I would post a thought. Oh the irony. What to bullshit about this
evening/morning? The weather is crap outside. Same old dull gray overcast.
Only this time, Mother Nature threw some snow into the mix. That was
interesting. Didn't think it snowed here anymore.
Sick of work. Sick of the same old crap. The
ignorant kissing ass, stabbing backs, and progressing up the ladder on the
backs of those they stab. Kinda' sucks. We had a communication course about
communication styles, and which ones were better than others, and how to deal
with the negative ones. But what really kills me in all of this, is that it
simply doesn't matter.
In an ideal professional environment, everyone
would admit what style they are, and take the counseling and steps they need
to become more open, and honest. But if they were to actually admit that they
had an issue, then they would ALREADY be open and honest. Therefore nullifying
the necessity to change their communication skills. But such is not the case.
Unfortunately, it all depends on how well you play the game. Which is grown-up
talk for "lie." Which blows. You can have all the conviction in the world, the
utmost integrity, and a desire to do what is right, and it simply doesn't
matter. It doesn't matter because those aren't the things that move you along.
Those aren't the pieces to the game.
Making sure your boss and the CEO know you were
working at 3:00am clearly must show dedication. Laughing at the ignorant
racist/sexist remarks of your incapable boss must mean that you are a
"likable" person with good "people skills." Claiming you slaved away and
provided all the materials for the latest project, when really others did the
work, and you simply allowed people to assume you did it, well that must mean
you're very dedicated to the company, and remarkably talented if I do say so
myself.
I don't send out an email at 3:00am just to get
the typical martyr response some may seem to garner. If I do send out an email
at that time, it's because I'm actually working on something and ACTUALLY need
information. I don't laugh at the racist/sexist remarks. Because they aren't
funny. I don't allow other people to infer that I did some project when I
didn't. Oh. Whatever. It's just frustrating as shit sometimes.
Which is typical. All I ever do it bitch about
work. I have a great job, I love what I do, I'm paid fairly well (does anyone
ever think that they are overpaid? C'mon!) So in reality, it could be worlds
worse. But what really grinds it to a halt (the joy, that is) is having to
manage frustration and cope with mediocrity. That's what's frustrating.
The house is painfully quiet. Every once in a
while the refrigerator clicks, letting me know it's still alive. Probably
wondering when I'm going to give it a bath. Selfish appliance. The odd car
passes by. There's one there. No stereo blaring this time. And I can't help
but wonder who else is doing something like this right now. Who else is
carving out the white pixels in an effort to feel some sort of connection with
the cognizant world?
I sat home tonight. Saturday night. And I really
didn't mind it. Just very quiet. It always seems quieter when snow falls. So
very soft. Like insulation against the normal nature sounds. Another car. And
I bitch about work, and I bitch about people, and it just doesn't make any
sense. What does any of that matter? I have the ability to not work on the
weekends, and leave at a decent hour. So I really should stop bitching. I have
my health, I have my family, and I have my friends. That right there is
awesome. There are so many people that don't have that. It's not that the
grass is always greener, per se. It's that it's different grass. Sometimes I
feel like I'm stuck in a knoll of crab grass, when all I really want is the
warm familiar embrace of Kentucky blue. And then of course when I get that
little piece of sovereign territory, I want nothing but wheatgrass.
I just don't know. I don't know where I'm going, I
don't know how to get there, and I don't know what the hell for.
I want a family. I want someone to miss me. To
pick me up when I'm down, and dust me off when I'm routine. I miss that. I
miss that a lot. And that's why the house is so quiet. Not because it's empty.
Because I am. And I need to figure out how to not feel to
vacant. So emotionally bankrupt. There are so many times I wish I could just
be happy with what I have. Happy for the above things I mentioned. But then
the silence comes exploding through the door. Reminding me of how great I used
to have it. Or at least how great I thought I used to have it.
I suppose, in the end, it's a balance between
negatives and positives. You can have the perfect life on paper, but in
reality it will be empty. Or you can have the empty life on paper, but in
reality it will be fulfilling. I guess I just sort of never figured myself to
be here. I never figured I would have the time, or quiet for that matter, to
notice the refrigerator. Or the odd car passing by. And maybe I should be
grateful I have at least that. It's better than before, but not better than it
will be. And I just need to keep believing that. I need to ignore the bankrupt
sign, and believe that there's more to me than that. Everyone deserves to be
happy. I try so very hard to make my friends and family happy. To spread some
ounce of silliness or joy to them. Even if it's just to get their minds off
all the day-to-day toil and bullshit. I need to learn how to do that for
myself.
It's always amazing to me how quickly time passes.
How swiftly things that happened yesterday in my mind, happened a decade ago.
And that's when I feel like I'm just reading water. Just keeping myself
afloat. Never really taking any risks, never really going anywhere. Just
treading. Routine. Doldrums. I don't know.
So it's four am. And even the appliances are
asleep now. I suppose I should join them. G'night. ~Sheal
____________________
06.20.2005
- "The House's Journal - part 1"
Saturday, February 12thness 2**5
Still can’t find that chicory log I left under Dixon’s pillow. I’m pretty sure
he has been sleeping on it and eating it when I’m not looking. I wouldn’t
doubt that Tol-M is behind this somehow. I’ll figure it out in my lair.
Monday, February 14, 2005
Will, I can see what you write in the journal. See? It’s right above what I’m
writing right now. I have no clue what in the hell this “chicory” log is, but
I can assure you, I didn’t take it. And neither did Tol-M. And on a related
note, please stop moving the TV into the bathtub. Believe it or not, that’s
dangerous. And to answer the question you carved in my bedroom door with the
new steak knives I just bought with my Amex points I've been saving for over 2
years, Dukes of Hazard is on that country music station. Thanks for that.
–d
Monday, February 14, 2005
You won’t be able to see what I write if I write in code. So I’m going to from
now on. [different colored ink, smeared with bbq sauce.]
I hate ALL ROBOTS! Dixon smells like dirty dish towels and Tol-M’s been
stealing all my Legos! No one can read my special code sauce! Death to all who
walk on our sidewalk like they own the place!
Monday, February 14, 2005
Will, I was standing right here when you wrote that. And I can read BBQ sauce
as well as I can ink. And blood, and Jell-O and any other “ink” we have in the
kitchen. Please stop abusing House Journal IV. It is for phone and mail
messages only, and only when I’m out of town. –d
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
Dear Diary,
They left me all alone again. I’m scared. I don’t recognize anyone. And there
are weird noises. I fear this may be my last hope. Help me Obiwan, you’re my
only hope. Even though I am not a robot, I can somehow sympathize with C3PO. I
wonder if anyone will ever love him…..the way I do. Anyway Diary, thanks for
listening, and I’ll go get you that blanket you wanted. Hugs and kisses, Tol-M
Thursday, February 16 2005
[written upside-down in chalk, then outlined with heavy
magic marker that smells like limes] They will never find them now! No
one will ever have to watch the blenders fight in front of the kids! Ever! I’m
a hero. Will, you deserve a reward! I do? Yes! Well thanks House’s Journal!
You’re the greatest! What should I steal? Anything you want! Dixon told me it
was okay! As long as you replace it with an exact replica before he gets back
from Tampa. Okay Mr. Journal Book! You got yerself a deal!
Thursday, February 16 2005
Dear Diary,
I can't find my helmet or knee pads or elbow pads or dinner I just set right
here next to you. And these strange entries keep appearing in you. Where are
they coming from? Who have you been talking to? Why won’t you answer me? Oh
well, I trust you Diary. But I can’t get over how beautiful you smell this
evening. Perhaps it is time we took this relationship to the next level. Why
don’t you an I doo preor nhgif os; hgd the only metal that’s liquid at room
temperature? Osir egonge oeg aaawa 43546 ergow 4-s What TV ad characters made
TV Guidesjhg lsie ogne p oi [several pages appear to
have burn marks and Trivial Pursuit cards stapled to them, with all the
answers being scribbled out and Will written in their place.] ugs and
kisses, Tol-M
Friday, February 17 2005
[this page appears to be written entirely in
gold-painted macaroni, with angel hair pasta jammed in their ends] It
has happened again. Someone keeps eating all of the house’s bored games.
Bored. Ha ha ha ha. I don’t know where Weiderman is, Dixon. I DON’T know where
Weiderman is, Dixon. Weiderman? Which one was he again? I do NOT have ANY clue
where Weiderman went Dixon. How dare YOU SIR! I never touched Weiderman! I
don’t know WHERE Tol-M put Mr. Weiderman, Dixon. Mr. Wiederman? Why, what
happened? I don’t know where THE Weiderman went, Dixon. Hey Dixon, where is
Weiderman? I helped him paint his house today. No….um…..Hey, Dixon, you
haven’t seen Weiderman’s foot anywhere, have you? No. Damnit. I’ll think of
something. Until then, I’m off to the bat cave at the push of a button
[poorly drawn picture of a button, similar to one that
would be found on a common button-down shirt.]
Saturday, February 18 2005
Will, I hope you read what I’m about to write. It is incredibly important you
pay attention to this. First, the journal was [giant
hole in page] is all I ask. Thank you Will, Tol-M and Steve. -d
Sunday, February 19 2005
To whom it may concern Dixon very much, I’m not too certain what you were
trying to write, but it appears you may have been going through a tunnel at
the time. Anyway, I listened to the rest of your voicemail, and it would seem
as though you are attempting to [switches to golden
macaroni] keep me down thrice times in the name of our Lord the Blender
of the Plunger People. How dare you suggest such things! There will be no way
that I will not seek some not lots of some not for almost tons of revenge. For
I have mastered the art of cryptotalkingwriting in code so you have no idea
what I am saying! I am definitely saying the opposite of
[switches to pencil] you are the coolest ever Dixon and I never used
your Q-tips on Weiderman’s cat box.
Sunday, February 19 2005
Dear Diary,
Why are you letting other people write on you and damage you? I thought I had
you hidden in a perfect hiding spot. The tears of sorrow are rusting my
non-robot-robot-like cheeks. And my face. What would you say if I told you
[giant hole, small writing around hole stating “By the
power of Skeletor, I censor you!”] can’t ever find out the truth. Tol-M
____________________
11.3.2004
- "You're-a-peein' Vacation - part 1"
So Willy T and Billy Woods and I went on a little
17-day European vacation. Now I know what you are thinking. But I refuse to
take my clothes off online. Instead, I figured I would recount the
adventure. Hopefully, I’ll remember all the low points, and blow them
insanely out of proportion to get a little pity outta’ you fools.
In order to save money, or rather, give the airlines more money, we decided
to fly out of our hometown, directly into London-Gatwick. I highly recommend
a direct flight to anyone that wants to intimately know the whereabouts of
small domestic children for 7.5 hours over the Atlantic Ocean. This is
surely not to be missed. Upon arrival in Mighty Olde England, we quickly
realized we were out of our element. Cars were exploding all around us.
Mostly from us driving into them because they were on the wrong side of the
road. Morons. All dentists were apparently on strike. For the last
hundred-some-odd years. Police officers were hopped up on drugs and calling
themselves “Bobby’s”. I can only assume they were referring to the Brady
Bunch. Essentially, we truly felt like tourists. Therefore, we were right.
We had the dollars, we had the American dream, and the power of persuasion.
So when the American consulate bailed us out of jail that first night, we
headed directly to Ye Olde Taverne ande Drinkinge Hole. And why the hell
everything had to end in an “e” is beyond me. I suppose it must be the
national letter or some shit. Whatevere. So we hobble our sorry asses into
this hotter-than-hell-in-the-middle-of-July pub and ordered up a few pints.
I assumed of good water or something, but apparently, it was of this adult
beverage some of you libatious folks call “beer.” Well heavens to Betsy
(Ross)! This was quite tasty. And so were the next dozen or so.
While stumbling down an escalator in Union Station, we quickly realized
someone really should’ve booked a hotel room for that evening. “Why go to a
hotel to get out of this heat when you can just crash in the subway?” spoke
a thoroughly inebriated Woods. “Indeed.” Agreed the mentally ill and drunk
counterparts. And let me add this: you really haven’t “lived” until you’ve
attempted to sleep in a subway station. Wearing dress clothes. And jewelry.
And the stench of spilled beer and salami.
Now honestly, I was expecting some sort of breakfast buffet when we woke up.
Visions of homeless chef’s manning the omelet station, street musicians
cooking made-to-order waffles. No. Heaven forbid this shit-hole of a town
actually do something intelligent like that. Instead, Bobby stopped by at
5:00am and kicked us out. Without so much as a glass of orange juice. That,
my friends, is a load of crap! Didn’t they realize we are AMERICANS!
So we decided to blow outta’ that Nazi Regime known and Englande and head
for more acceptable ground. A place where Americans are truly loved. That’s
right, chunnel our asses to France please! Paris to be precise.
Well let me start this little subsection by stating the following: why
didn’t anyone in Americaland warn us that the French friggin’ HATE
Americans? Let alone smart ones that insist those frogs speak the universal
language of American? WHY? Well, as you can guess, this didn’t go over too
well.
So we walk into the train station in Paris. The punch-to-the-face odor that
was proliferating the prison-style station was that of a hundred
cantaloupes, all crapping out fava beans into a sewage treatment plant on
the eve of Lets-Dump-All-Our-Stinky-Shit-Onto-Your-Face Day. This is
apparently the national holiday of France. While grabbing our noses and
attempting to find an intellectual that actually spoke Americanese and wore
deodorant, we couldn’t help but notice all the attractive people. Not the
ordinary 400lb USofA giants that fill up Wal-Mart at 3:00pm on a Saturday.
Oh no, these were, “Hey, you’ve seen us on the Travel Channel at 3:00pm on a
Saturday” official hotties! So we waded through the crowd of stinky pretty
people in the hopes of finding someone that spoke our language. This proved
fruitless. Everyone we talked to either yelled something in French and
slapped all three of us, or grabbed their purse and found the rifle-toting
guards. Neither instance was very much fun, despite how it sounds. And, as
you can guess, trying to articulate our plans for taking an overnight train
to Venice ended up translating into something similar to, “We hate you
Goddamned French heretics!” Again, as you can guess, Bobby and his twelve
large cousins chose to give us a tour of the city, via jail. Now, I know
what you are thinking, and I still refuse to take my clothes off online. Get
over it.
We get to the prison. Fun ride. No really, it was. Why did the giant
buttery-popcorn smelling homeless lady next to me had to smell so damn
yummy? This only added to the charges levied against us. And trying to find
a bail bondsman in the middle of the night in Paris is like trying to find a
bail bondsman in the middle of the night in Paris. I know, pretty rough
right? Indeed.
Now I was expecting some sort of breakfast buffet when we woke up. Ya’ know,
inmate #3y89234 manning the omelet station, #90f09347 running the
made-to-order waffles. No such dice. Not even a glass of cranberry juice
with a sprig of mint in it. What sort of backwards 3rd world shit-hole did
we find ourselves in? I was amazed they even had gravity here! So, we bailed
ourselves out of prison. And since we had roughly one hour to get out of the
country, we hopped the very next flight to Venice. And by “flight” I mean
long-ass train ride with a scary man in the same sleeper car as ours that
kept staring at us and making licking sounds. And by “licking sounds” I mean
“licking sounds.”
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