I already lost this entry once, so you might notice that it sucks in that recycled-work sort of way. sorry. it ended up being the longest entry yet, so yeah.
Employment.
I've been trying to think of a good scapegoat on which to blame my lack of employment. Perhaps I could pin it on my high school teachers, who praised me for turning in work that I barely put any thought into. I could blame my church leaders who failed to reach me enough to instill the virtues of doing the Lord's work (that's one of my favorites.) Then of course there's the rock and roll music and experimentation with marijuana which seem to have polluted my mind and landed me on the wrong side of the tracks. These ideas sometimes help me sleep at night, and the more I think about it, the more I feel I should support myself this summer on court winnings from suing those who influenced me during my childhood.
Fuck you all, I know it's my fault.
But the last failure in seeking employment seemed to be a blatant effort by a force larger than you or I, to prove to me beyond any doubt that I am a penniless piece of unhirable human refuse. First, some backstory: A friend of mine works at MetLife third-shift and has been for some time. I asked him recently if he would be able to find me a job there and he said he would talk to his boss. I thought this was awesome because since the beginning of summer he and I have progressed from mere aquaintences to what might be called 'new friends,' whatever that means. It meant a lot to me for him to do this, and it was especially wonderful when he told me that someone had just left and that there was in fact an openining. He suggested I go to this temp agency in Dunmore and register with them, since Met gets a lot of their employees from this agency. The very next business day, I was up at 9am to drive my mom to work so I could go to this temp place.
Things seemed to be supernaturally in my favor. The place only accepts registrations from 8:30am until 11am, and the trip from my mom's lab to the place ended at almost exactly 11. I was able to register, also thanks to the cool guy who worked there who accomidated my slight lateness. We talked passingly about our schools and jobs and how trying to get employed tends to suck, but at that point I was pretty far from feeling down about it. Sure enough a position was available at MetLife, third shift, which happened to be the highest paying job in their database at the time. He really seemed as though he was pulling for me too. He indicated that there was another person interested in the job, but he would do what he could to put me in front. A college student himself, he was admittedly biased. Filling out paperwork never seemed so rewarding. Gleefully, I filled out even a W2, thrilled at the prospect of having MY hard-earned wages taxed. Hell, I was going to finish summer 4 figures richer! I felt beside myself. He contacted his superior to organize a tour of Met's premises, a precurser to employment, and he called later that day to say it was to take place the next morning at 11am.
Again, perfect timing. Once more, I drove my mom to work and, in spite of being lead astray a few times by a security guard who had his own definition of the "back" of the building, I was at Met to meet this woman right on time. Accompanying her was this slouchy, dopey looking man who was also interested in the position. To the boon of my confidence, he was not dressed to impress. Beneath his worn Yankees hat, his large glasses, his blue t-shirt and tattered pants, he looked like your most sketchy distant uncle. I tasted on the back of my tongue the bitter flavor of workplace competition, knowing that through my gestures, poise, and articulation, I would crush this man like the unqualified doofus he was. The final nail in his coffin would be the fact that he had the most severe stutter I had ever heard. The stars finally seemed aligned in my favor.
The tour concluded with both of us still interested in the job. I had cracked a few good jokes, exuded politeness, friendliness, and generally came across as a down-to-earth guy who seemed like he would have no problem getting the job done. Meanwhile, my competition had succeeded in looking dumb, and at one point taking no less than five seconds to say "if" before a sentence could finally collect at the back of his teeth and spill out onto our shoes.
Then, this force--larger than us all--found the perfect time to remind me of the decree that I am, under no circumstance, allowed to have a well paying job. The woman asked the question that has haunted me for as long a summer job was necessary: "So are you both looking for a fulltime position?" The back of my neck grew cold with nausia. "Y-y-y-yeees, fuufuuffufuuffuuull ti---," stammered my opponent. "To the end of summer, but also on my major school breaks," I then said. She explained that she would consult with HR at MetLife to see if they were looking for a summer position or something more permanent, and that she would hire whomever fit the bill later that day.
As could be predicted, no phone call came. I'm back at square one, skunked again in spite of seemingly bulletproof leads. I'm also 20 bucks poorer because I bought myself 2 reward lunches in expectation of having an income.
Terrorism.
So I guess Al-Qaeda has our country on its toes again after a London "think-tank" asserted the obvious: that AQ's operatives are growing in numbers and organizing, in spite of their leaders being killed and captured, and the States reducing Afghanistan and Iraq to pads of land that resemble discarded scabs. Who would've guessed? Sarcasm aside, I question the sanity of our rulers who honestly felt that pressing the reset button on two countries would have a positive effect on terrorists. If you think of terrorists as bacteria, they thrive and multiply in war-torn states. Disgrunted youths whose parents are killed by errant missles, who see their land over-taken by foreigners, who see one oppressive, interest-driven regime replaced by another in the name of capitalism and a religion they don't believe in...can one really blame them for fighting back? Although it leads directly to frightening conclusions, one must keep perspective here. They are idealistic fighters striving for something in which they believe. Haven't American soldiers been doing that since there has been such a thing as American soldiers? What makes us so much more impregnable and protected then the "rest" of the world? It's surely not God's favor, if a reasonable person could even take solace in that.
I felt this way once before, on the afternoon of September 11th when I had no idea what could happen next. That was fear, being confronted with the possibility of having countable breaths. But by the next day, I saw through the panic and the thick rhetoric and generally distanced myself from the fear of another attack. Since then, I've boarded planes without reservation; I roll my eyes at the trepid countenence Tom Ridge when he goes on TV to talk about his little color system; I take no heed of Bush's efforts to ingrain concepts like "terrorist," "evil," and "cowardly enemy" into my mind to capture my vote. However, with this latest swelling of fear in America, I find myself again compelled by what's going on.
There is nothing we can do to prevent another attack. There is no lack of animosity to the policies of our country, and in no way could I imagine a decline in the number of people who would die to see America's empire fall. Something will happen again, and I am distinctly aware that someone I love may be killed. It's not so much the attack that I fear, but the aftermath.
The United States sits upon a table, and the way I see it, one leg has already been knocked out from under it. With 9/11 came the Patriot Act, the destruction of Afghanistan, and the war in Iraq. Things are deteriorating rapidly if you examine a couple things:
1) Our government is pouring a mind-boggling amount of resources into Iraq. Billions upon billions of dollars are needed to support troops, maintain and build equipment and armament, strengthen the army, keep up morale, sell the war to the public, and so on. Money, and it's lack, is not necessarily the end of America, but it will have to be accounted for at some point.
2) Legislation is being continuously passed that hopes to strengthen our defenses against terrorism. This includes surveilance technology, databases, and whatever else the higher-ups deem necessary to feret out terrorists and potentials. Civil liberties and freedoms are the casualties of this.
Things are not so bad right now. There are still strong skeptics doing their best to keep things in check. But consider how things will be if there is another massive attack on US soil. All efforts up to now will be exposed as completely fruitless endeavours. Skepticism of a law that allows unbridaled raping of liberties will be unwelcome and disregarded, just as diplomacy seemed completely out of the question on September 12th. Another large scale attack, therefore, would knock out another leg of the table that holds us up, and no table I've ever seen stands on two legs. With proof that weak legislation could not prevent another large-scale attack, I imagine the US would become nothing less than a police state complete with neighborly informants and Stasi files.
In my eyes, that would be the point of no return for the United States. With our most basic principles compromised, we would no longer be a nation.
So even beyond the risk of death, I fear the next large scale attack because of the impending fallout that would reorganize American life to the very last detail, in so doing, dethroning this country as the superpower.
I guess one upside--that is if I happen to survive the next attack--is that I would live an exciting life, trying to find my way out of this country and surviving somewhere else.
12:27PM - Question: Was I hired?
. . .
4:55PM (end of business day) - Answer: No.
i'm really fucking tired. i had a really pleasant time at a friend's house, just sitting around drinking with a bunch of us. i feel like i've landed a good night when i go home in the haze. i guess i would define the haze as being intoxicated to the point just before the point where, if you stopped, you would be sick later in the night. tonight, i just landed right on that spot, that tired, heavy contented spot where your exhalations taste pleasant and your eyes have a weight that implies you'll sleep deeply. i think contentedness is one of the best things to write about because there's so many different ways to describe feeling at ease within your surroundings and within yourself.
i'm listening to Chicane - Far From The Maddening Crowds, and on the third track, i get the impression that it's a contemplative album, in the same way that one would contemplate an ethical question. you sort of drift off into your own thoughts, tossing different ideas around, under no stress to find a workable answer to the problem. if it makes any sense, that's the mood of this album up until the third track (of 11). i feel like i'm trying to figure out a riddle or some extracurricular math problem.
it bears mentioning that this entry is titled 'my shoes' because beer was spilled on them tonight, and i distinctly remember being mildly put off by that.
Chicane is so good. Chicane captures a vibe that I haven't found in any other group. Envision yourself driving away from your girlfriend's house...i suppose boyfriend would apply too...driving away from their house thinking about your place in their heart. You think about your future with them, you think of the past you've had, you think of what pain you might endure if things ended. Chicane captures that kind of pensive tension where you may well be thinking about the worst, but the worst has yet to actually manifest itself. In a very distinct way, you can imagine the lights on the highway streaking past you as you think. You feel the disregarded rhythmic thud of of the painted centerline as you accelerate to past another driver. I don't know any other way to say it. Chicane is pensive tension.
My socks are wet with the beer that spilled on my shoes before. You know? That doesn't matter at all. Beer doesn't stain, for one thing, and for another, I don't sleep with socks on. It's 4:03AM and I'll be asleep soon, effectively rid of my beer-moistened socks. Thoughts like that provide a lot of comfort, somehow.
(The only reason I find comfort in the fact that I can elect to not sleep in beer-moist socks, is because I'm still pretty drunk.)
If this entry were a gradient, it would've gone from pretty vibrant red to a desaturated and dull shade of pink, with satuation representing how enjoyable the entry was at a given point.
In addition to unsocked feet while sleeping being a comforting feeling, the fact that I can hit return twice to start a new thought is also comforting.
Within the next week, I hope to have a really delicious sandwich. One that has turkey, pickles, mayonaise, lettuce, maybe some tuna (which has celery in it), and maaaaybe some mustard, on wheat bread, with a pepsi, and some chips that don't suck.
See? two strikes on return and i get a new thought. I've considered the possibility of someday becoming famous, and having fans discover this weblog and read every word, falling even deeper in admiration for me. THat fantasy is borne of me having a fascination for the writings of my idols. As an example, there's hide, whose lyrical scrawlings are on display in his museum in japan. I think, damn. Did he ever imagine that some nappy piece of notebookpaper with a couple sophmoric lyrics would be adored behind museum glass? I consider this weblog being archived and or published at some point.
I am completely aware 1) of how unlikely that is and 2) of how pompous and dorky such a concept is. But it's still fun to think about. Many of us want to be famous, or acheive some kind of noteriety, be it when we're on our beds dancing in front of a sold out crowd, or when we're just lying in bed mulling over our own potential for greatness. The more famous people I see, the more I think it's not really that big of a deal to become, or to be famous. It doesn't take a lot to think of all famous people as vulnerable bags of flesh the same way "normal" people are. Then you think "fucking Nickleback got famous, what is keeping the most unappealing degenerate loser from hitting the airways?." The answer, if you consider Nickleback, is nothing.
What more to say? I'm significantly more tired than I was when I started this entry. There's nothing more to say.
One thing about not posting for a while, the first sentences of a new entry are supported by a pretty large stack of potential topics. (The jury is still out whether the title of this entry applies to this rule).
I can reach into this here deep comfy hat and pull out anything from ex-girlie stuff, to reflections about school, to my job search, to chemically encouraged introspections, or even just "summer." And any one of those topics comes complete with a handful of digressions that will surely make this into a dauntingly long entry. What the hell, right? Lots of words look pretty.
.Chapter 1: Girl
First of all, when it comes to revisiting significant periods in one's own life, Coincidence is always waiting in the wings to fuck with you. In an effort to inventory the sizable library of digital crap that I've accumulated over the years, I was going through old documents that have long since been burned to CD and forgotten. Papers dating from junior year of highschool were especially funny to read, because I could clearly notice my purposeful verbosity. Highschool teachers get off on 11th graders using words like "propensity" and making sentences that have so many syllables you would get dry-mouth by reciting just one of them. I think the A's I got on papers were purely based on word-choice. But even more signifigant than old papers were the chat logs I saved when I was going through a breakup a couple years ago. It was my first real serious relationship so of course when it ended, I was seriously fucked up for a while. For what I think is the first time since I stopped being phased by the whole thing, I confronted all of the bullshit through which I put myself (not to mention her, and a couple of my other friends). In retrospect, I handled it...errm...poorly. Seeing first hand my weasly spinelessness literally makes me wince. I mean, I see where I was coming from and all, but in all honesty, I wish I could go back to my past self and slap his poncy ass back to reality.
What's funny is that Coincidence saw a perfect opportunity to screw with me. Since 2001 we've been physically far from eachother. She lives in Ohio and schools in Ithaca, NY, myself in Pennsylvania. After not seeing her for more than a year or even acknowledging what transpired, I got a call from her cell that she and her friends were passing through town and needed a bathroom, a day after I had been sifting through the worst memories I have of her. Coincidence, you're a real card.
.Chapter 2: School
Done? You bet your ass I'm fucking done. I pulled lesser grades than I would've wanted, but I can't say the professors graded unfairly. In fact, for the work I did, they were generous on level rivaling that of voluntary organ donors. I think with any academic endeavour, I have to see how shitty I can do while still getting by, before I can actually apply myself. As it happens, college for a liberal arts student is pretty easy. If I wasn't so used to getting As and Bs for playing CMR3/4 and napping, I would surely have a solid 4.0. Yes, I feel guilty for this.
.Chapter 3: Jobs
I don't really want to talk about it.
.Chapter 4: Chemicals
Should I even talk about this? I have to pose an assumption before I do. I'll assume that anyone who reads this who might be put off by me doing drugs understands that I am a responsible 22 year old and can take care of myself. I understand moderation, it's as simple as that.
I visited my friend at school last weekend and, to say the absolute least, had a blast. We did stuff, and were sweet, and had an all-around awesome time. We ate and made up enduring quotes.
"Humanity is sobriety."
I was walking with my friend discussing something that I can't entirely recall. I believe we were comparing ourselves, in the state that we were, to the other people around us, sober, just going about their business, accepting interaction with other people as a matter of course. Accepting anything as a matter of course in the state that we were in is essentially impossible. So as we were walking down a walkway as everyone else was, I would look at a stranger's face. I would think of my significance to them, basically nothing, and I would be bewildered at how much of the human civilization is based on a really basic coping mechanism. Religion helps us cope with the unforseen future; small talk helps us cope with the enormous amount of variables involved with meeting someone new; culture is the manifestation of a bunch of people being really bored. Pretty much everything human can be narrowed down to a need for coping. That seems really nihilistic, but at the same time, if coping is the glue holding our civilization together, then it's really proved to be a fantastic impetus to keep us moving on to the next day.
It was an extremely cerebral experience that left me feeling refreshed and grounded. So much went through my head, but even so, it's possible to sum up in one word:
"Oops."
A couple months ago I signed up for Orkut in an effort to satiate my desire to meet new people. But as so often happens when I'm confronted with questions about my "activities," "favorite movies," or really anything that's supposed to make me unique, I stared blankly at the screen feeling really dull. I ended up putting in my name and birthday and forgot about it, quietly hoping that some really cute girl would think May 5th was the sexiest birthday of the year.
Just tonight a friend of mine added me to his list of friends on Orkut, and I though hell with it, I'll put in the rest of the stuff and see what happens. It would fucking rock to meet a stranger and fire up a cool relationship. It strokes the same nerve that provoked my pen-pal fetish a couple years ago. With Orkut you can search for people in as general or as specific a way as you like. I ended up groping around for someone female, around my age, who doesn't suck, and ended up sending a brief little message to someone. It felt cool.
Summer vacation hasn't officially begun, but I'm home with nothing to do. So, now I will make a list of things to do this summer:
It should be cool. Fuckng cool.