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Here's the rub.
Understaffed. Crackdown. Babies. Kayaks. Exiting business sponsor. A week away but mired in drama. I've bitten my fingernails down down down. There are all these things swirling inside. Deconstruction of pet peeves, elusory ethics, the will to stand up and walk away, questioning biology, questioning heritage and community, and the lack thereof, transsexuals, misanthropy, heartache...
Bullshit and yuppies. So sick of fricken yuppies. Yuppies and their damn kayaks and second homes, and pre-teen Corvettes. They all need to be hosed down with a giant Clorax wipe and staked to the State Fair pig house. Sniff that suckahs!
This bitter, it's against the grain. It don't jibe. It's that cliched road less traveled. There seems to be a lot of that going around these days. |
- I just can't seem to get motivated.
- You should get a mortgage, that'll get you motivated.
*internally giving manager the big HEY FUCK YOU! finger*
It started yesterday. This bullshit. It's been brewing to overload for several months. I don't want this job anymore. Frankly, I don't want to work anymore. Who does? Right. Crispy cubicle burnout. What's the point? My head is nearly splitting with ideas for artwork, but I'm stifled by the need to "just get along". It's going to be the death of me - each day a little death - bore-dumb disguised as 0's and 1's dancing in pixelated color cubes.
That's the crux of the problem isn't it. The box. The four walls without windows holding me back. We talk about just going. Just going go go.
- Just leave. You can do it! You have the network.
Of course I can do it. I'm scared. Just a little scared mo'fo. I failed/fucked up/made the wrong choices before, who's to say I won't get bored with it all, that this isn't the right path either?
- Because you love it.
It's true. I love it. Art that is.
I do. It's my passion - I'd give anything to do it all day every day to the exclusion of everything else except the cats.
But It's not my life right now.
Instead I sit in my cubicle, reading about people trying to put words to creativity, trying to define, trying to do that one last ponder.
Ponderosa. Mimosa. I brim with creativity - it sings in my bones and whistles through my pubic hair. But i'm stuck in a fucking rut. Tut tut.
And I'm not sure how long I can hold back this manic that says...
- Just walk right out. |
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motherersatz's journal