|Every pickup is a prelude to murder.
||[Apr. 15th, 2005|02:59 pm]
Last night, sitting next to a rollergirl compatriot, we dreamt of stealing away to Mexico for a month or the rest of our lives. Even if it was on one of those buses that takes people home by way of every city in Southern Texas before stopping in Juarez. "We just have to cross the border." |
Me, in my clarity. What would it matter anyway? Then we'd just be in a different country boozing and wondering what goes on in the minds of men. I hoped that my life would change with little intervention on my part. If you want it, you have to really go for it, and I'm just tired. In my next life, I want to be just charming enough to breeze by.
How did I get here? Immersed in this bubble where the names of friends I don't have matter more than those I do. When did my girls trade intimate late night phone calls for mass mailings to e-mail lists of which I'm suddenly a part?
Tonight I'd like to shake my tailfeather until it all goes away but I can't fucking stand the thought of doing alongside Denver's legions of delicate boys, the neo-nouveau masculinity, who are bringing back the rock 'n' roll styles of the '70s and '80s. Not tonight.
In an e-mail from a friend today, this: "I hate school. I hate my project. I hate being yelled at...Regardless, wanna skate outside tomorrow?". Why can't life be that simple? The only time I stop thinking is when I'm skating, lap after lap, that's when my thoughts evaporate, I forget life off of my wheels and escape inside of my head. I like it in there. In there is where I simultaneously torture myself and somehow turn the past into a formulaic brand of rationalization that allows me to go on with my life. In there is where I hide things, keep my secrets, and lock up those of others.
At some point, during lunch today, my brain processed my upcoming commitments to various people, places, and cats into one big mindfuck that eventually swelled into the realm of simply unmanageable. Everything was sorted and plotted and accounted for on a calendar until yesterday, when I added another crappy job to the days contained within little boxes that hang on my wall. I couldn't say no when asked if I wanted my old job back--sans the great pay, tolerable co-workers, and benefits.
Even bestowed with the murky title of Consultant, being hired back somehow healed a portion of the wounds that, for so long, have added yet another layer of sadness and disappointment to an already beleaguered ego. The validation should cancel out the late nights I spend, fueled by margaritas and a nicotine rush, trying to compile a list of ways in which life before I was laid off is somehow similar to life after. But nothing is the same. Not one thing. Since my mind likes a challenge, this keeps me up most nights. Much as I deny it and anesthetize myself to the point where I forget, it was a lapse of major importance.
Getting laid off hit me where it hurts--in the heart of what I do, what I did, the only thing I cared to work at. "It just ruined everything," I very recently wept to two girls who, through my tears, looked like the only people on earth who saw through me. I didn't mind the talk of severance, and of cleaning out my cubicle. It was the unspoken that settled in my gut: "We don't want you to write for us. Anymore." That voice, the words of corporate America are still stuck in my head and it doesn't stop, like a fucking marionette with its mouth going up and down. Up and down.