Monday, January 30, 2006
End-alls, Be-alls, schmee-alls
OK, so things aren't that bad. At least, I've calmed down a little. I picked up shifts at Slicks this week. I can do that for awhile to float me until I figure out what I'm going to do.
I rode my bike today for the first time in awhile. I got a mountain bike for Christmas. Did I tell you that? It's a 21-speed red Huffy. Having a mountain bike is great in Houston because the sidewalks and streets are so shitty. My tires have taken plenty of blows, whereas a regular street bike would've fed me 8,000 tons of concrete by now, I think.
Rethinking the job situation. I got hired by a couple temp agencies. But I have to start with short-term jobs first, which means I'll have to quit Chuy's. The thing is, I love working there.
As a host, I wouldn't be worse off if they paid me in pounds of peanuts. The problem is, it pays so little that even if I worked full time I'd still barely make it. The hosting shifts are short, so that would require lots of doubles. If I wanted to do that I may as well pack a lunch and a sleeping bag for work. Not to mention the fact that part time at any job is just enough so that you don't hate it, you know?
I explained my situation to my boss there. She asked me why I didn't try to be a server. Two reasons. The first is that before they'd even let me do that, I'd have to work To-Go, which pays only 50 cents an hour more than hosting. The other is a combination of laziness, and that I'm stubborn. I've seen how they work. The restaurant is crowded 99 percent of the time. The servers bust their asses. I'm feeling too tired and old for that. My back already hurts constantly. I don't even know how the waiters do it half the time. I feel like if I were to serve there full time I'd be as physically and mentally tired as I was working full time at Slicks and part time there, with school. It would take that much out of me.
And I would hate the customers. Not all of them. A nice mixture of folks, rich and poor, laid-back and uptight, from in town and out of town, come there. Lots of different people. But dealing with them as a server? Fuck that. I'm tired of serving food. I don't really give a shit about knowing the menu anywhere anymore. Plus, you have all the people that come in there thinking they're Nora Ephron, ordering this without this with a side of this, and this other thing not on it, but on the side. Pfff. Whatever. Even vegetarians do it. Chuy's is one of my favorite restaurants because of the menu's many vegetarian options. But Nikki works there too, and she's told me people still come in there and make up their own shit. They'll get some combo that comes with like beef tacos and chalupas and enchiladas and modify it all to hell.
I'm at that point where my experience in the service industy has me walking a fine line between "Yes, sir," and "Fuck right off!"
So there you have it.
***
I'm trying to reconstruct my dreams. I'm trying for new goals. Hobbies. Friends. I feel like a life without them would be lifeless. Maybe it's fear of failure. Anxiety. Laziness. But I'm trying to get those back.
It's like when I go on these interviews, and people ask me what I want to be doing in five years. I don't fucking know. Or Office Space, the part when they're talking about what job you would do for fun if you had a million dollars already.
Fuck man.
So, I've got two tentative dreams. One is teaching English in Japan when I graduate. The other is to be a musician. An actual one. You know, one who records, and plays shows, even if they're small.
I was talking to Nikki about all this the other night. Because I'm always thinking about being someone else: like how I used to imagine what it would be like to be Ellen, when she got her degree and a new job in a new city. And how I'm always telling Nikki how she's young and beautiful and has no debt and could do anything or go anywhere right now, if she really wanted. Why can't I just be happy with myself and where I'm going? Why can't I see in myself what my friends see in me, or even strangers?
Nikki said when I sing, I don't hear myself. I hear all my mistakes, or I think about how I could belt it out when I was just a little kid, and how I've neglected this part of me for so long I feel like it's fading away.
But it doesn't have to. No one says when you are 25 years old you have to stop dreaming.
It's not the end-all, be-all. This doesn't have to be.
***
I've had so many job interviews. They make me so uncomfortable. All I can think about, when I think of where I want to be -- when I'm staring at the cookie-cutter artwork, and the functional yet uncomfortable office furniture, their tacky carpets, and fake office folks, with ladies wearing pantyhose and pumps, walking around like they're in costume -- is this for an answer: "Not. Fucking. Here."
A few months ago, just before I began my boycott of sex and dating, I went out a few times with this crazy guy. He was in his thirties. A businessman. Very intelligent. And funny. But nonetheless, crazy, or at least on par with me.
He used to tell me everything was compromise. He was so fun with his friends. Talkative, hilarious. He could start a conversation with anyone and make them laugh, or at least smile, in 30 seconds. Hands down. He had a great smile too.
But he'd sit across from me, in our more serious conversations over coffee, and tell me, "Everything in life is compromise."
Giving a little to get a little -- like how he hated his business life, when the fact that how phoney he could be to get what he wanted and to motivate people wasn't actually entertaining him. Everything was bending and folding things to make them fit.
I'm too much of an idealist for that, maybe. Even as low as I feel right now. I take the hopeful line. The one Dave and I are always talking about. The reason that I'm still fucking emo, no matter how close to the edge I get to making the jump to goth. Hah.
Problem is, half of me says that compromises are necessary in the beginning to get what you want: like giving up Chuy's even though I like it there, to pick up shifts at Slicks. Only, sometimes my body just carries so much shit from that place it feels like it might collapse: People I don't feel like seeing, songs I don't want to hear, assholes I don't want to deal with, drugs and money passing right in front of me, or memories of this friend or that lover even, and hanging out at this table or that table. Even the tables we played on when I had my going away parties. Or people coming in saying, "I thought you left." And me saying, "I did."
I have long conversations with people and then I don't remember them. I don't remember them because I don't remember the people. I don't remember the people because I never actually see them. I don't see them because I'm not looking. I'm not looking because I don't care.
So, back to compromise. I have to think that if I'll work hard and make some compromises now, I'll eventually get what I want. But then I wonder if he was right. What if that's what happens? And I'll learn that I have to keep doing this for the rest of my life?
I don't want to settle for that. I don't want to compromise my way through. I don't want to be wrong.
OK, so things aren't that bad. At least, I've calmed down a little. I picked up shifts at Slicks this week. I can do that for awhile to float me until I figure out what I'm going to do.
I rode my bike today for the first time in awhile. I got a mountain bike for Christmas. Did I tell you that? It's a 21-speed red Huffy. Having a mountain bike is great in Houston because the sidewalks and streets are so shitty. My tires have taken plenty of blows, whereas a regular street bike would've fed me 8,000 tons of concrete by now, I think.
Rethinking the job situation. I got hired by a couple temp agencies. But I have to start with short-term jobs first, which means I'll have to quit Chuy's. The thing is, I love working there.
As a host, I wouldn't be worse off if they paid me in pounds of peanuts. The problem is, it pays so little that even if I worked full time I'd still barely make it. The hosting shifts are short, so that would require lots of doubles. If I wanted to do that I may as well pack a lunch and a sleeping bag for work. Not to mention the fact that part time at any job is just enough so that you don't hate it, you know?
I explained my situation to my boss there. She asked me why I didn't try to be a server. Two reasons. The first is that before they'd even let me do that, I'd have to work To-Go, which pays only 50 cents an hour more than hosting. The other is a combination of laziness, and that I'm stubborn. I've seen how they work. The restaurant is crowded 99 percent of the time. The servers bust their asses. I'm feeling too tired and old for that. My back already hurts constantly. I don't even know how the waiters do it half the time. I feel like if I were to serve there full time I'd be as physically and mentally tired as I was working full time at Slicks and part time there, with school. It would take that much out of me.
And I would hate the customers. Not all of them. A nice mixture of folks, rich and poor, laid-back and uptight, from in town and out of town, come there. Lots of different people. But dealing with them as a server? Fuck that. I'm tired of serving food. I don't really give a shit about knowing the menu anywhere anymore. Plus, you have all the people that come in there thinking they're Nora Ephron, ordering this without this with a side of this, and this other thing not on it, but on the side. Pfff. Whatever. Even vegetarians do it. Chuy's is one of my favorite restaurants because of the menu's many vegetarian options. But Nikki works there too, and she's told me people still come in there and make up their own shit. They'll get some combo that comes with like beef tacos and chalupas and enchiladas and modify it all to hell.
I'm at that point where my experience in the service industy has me walking a fine line between "Yes, sir," and "Fuck right off!"
So there you have it.
***
I'm trying to reconstruct my dreams. I'm trying for new goals. Hobbies. Friends. I feel like a life without them would be lifeless. Maybe it's fear of failure. Anxiety. Laziness. But I'm trying to get those back.
It's like when I go on these interviews, and people ask me what I want to be doing in five years. I don't fucking know. Or Office Space, the part when they're talking about what job you would do for fun if you had a million dollars already.
Fuck man.
So, I've got two tentative dreams. One is teaching English in Japan when I graduate. The other is to be a musician. An actual one. You know, one who records, and plays shows, even if they're small.
I was talking to Nikki about all this the other night. Because I'm always thinking about being someone else: like how I used to imagine what it would be like to be Ellen, when she got her degree and a new job in a new city. And how I'm always telling Nikki how she's young and beautiful and has no debt and could do anything or go anywhere right now, if she really wanted. Why can't I just be happy with myself and where I'm going? Why can't I see in myself what my friends see in me, or even strangers?
Nikki said when I sing, I don't hear myself. I hear all my mistakes, or I think about how I could belt it out when I was just a little kid, and how I've neglected this part of me for so long I feel like it's fading away.
But it doesn't have to. No one says when you are 25 years old you have to stop dreaming.
It's not the end-all, be-all. This doesn't have to be.
***
I've had so many job interviews. They make me so uncomfortable. All I can think about, when I think of where I want to be -- when I'm staring at the cookie-cutter artwork, and the functional yet uncomfortable office furniture, their tacky carpets, and fake office folks, with ladies wearing pantyhose and pumps, walking around like they're in costume -- is this for an answer: "Not. Fucking. Here."
A few months ago, just before I began my boycott of sex and dating, I went out a few times with this crazy guy. He was in his thirties. A businessman. Very intelligent. And funny. But nonetheless, crazy, or at least on par with me.
He used to tell me everything was compromise. He was so fun with his friends. Talkative, hilarious. He could start a conversation with anyone and make them laugh, or at least smile, in 30 seconds. Hands down. He had a great smile too.
But he'd sit across from me, in our more serious conversations over coffee, and tell me, "Everything in life is compromise."
Giving a little to get a little -- like how he hated his business life, when the fact that how phoney he could be to get what he wanted and to motivate people wasn't actually entertaining him. Everything was bending and folding things to make them fit.
I'm too much of an idealist for that, maybe. Even as low as I feel right now. I take the hopeful line. The one Dave and I are always talking about. The reason that I'm still fucking emo, no matter how close to the edge I get to making the jump to goth. Hah.
Problem is, half of me says that compromises are necessary in the beginning to get what you want: like giving up Chuy's even though I like it there, to pick up shifts at Slicks. Only, sometimes my body just carries so much shit from that place it feels like it might collapse: People I don't feel like seeing, songs I don't want to hear, assholes I don't want to deal with, drugs and money passing right in front of me, or memories of this friend or that lover even, and hanging out at this table or that table. Even the tables we played on when I had my going away parties. Or people coming in saying, "I thought you left." And me saying, "I did."
I have long conversations with people and then I don't remember them. I don't remember them because I don't remember the people. I don't remember the people because I never actually see them. I don't see them because I'm not looking. I'm not looking because I don't care.
So, back to compromise. I have to think that if I'll work hard and make some compromises now, I'll eventually get what I want. But then I wonder if he was right. What if that's what happens? And I'll learn that I have to keep doing this for the rest of my life?
I don't want to settle for that. I don't want to compromise my way through. I don't want to be wrong.
Labels: Anxiety, Goals, Relationships, Work
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Dead to the World
I listened to JamisonParker this morning. I forgot how much I love that EP.
I'm having a pretty good day. Fell asleep at like 10 last night. Woke up at 7. Did some dishes. Did some laundry. Enjoyed the brightness of my living room, all the big windows and the blinds drawn.
Lately I am so dissatisfied. I feel like ... I don't know ... dead to the world.
I haven't been riding my mountain bike because it's been cold outside. I haven't been playing my guitar because I feel like I suck; and the less I practice, the more I suck. So it just produces this crazy cycle of suckage.
I don't read anything. I read True Love, and half of Maybe, Maybe Not. I read the first page of A Tale of Two Cities. I've read pieces of magazine articles. But for the last few years I could count on one hand how many good books I've read.
Even when I read them, I don't discuss them. I don't think too critically about them. I just let them wash over me. Like water. It feels like doing something. But it's not really. Other than passing time, I suppose.
My schedule is changing. I'm adjusting. It's something I wanted. I let Slicks become some sort of staple in my life. Now I'm away from poeople, and that environment. I don't really miss it. In fact, I'm happier. Just trying to learn a new way to manage my time now that work doesn't take up so much. My nights are free to do as I please. I began to loathe working until 3 a.m., and how I always felt anxious -- like I needed to go out whenever I was off, rather than stay home. Otherwise, mid-week I'd go crazy watching everyone else hang out while I would bring them their drinks.
Now, though, I miss myself. I miss my apartment. Crazy how it sounds, but I think I spent more time at home when I was working two jobs and going to school than I do now.
And I spent so much more time alone. At least a couple hours a day.
I feel like my brain is melting. I don't read the paper or watch the news. I rarely have intelligent conversation. I feel so dispassionate about most things.
And some asshole broke my heart six months ago. Only, he wasn't an asshole. I only say that because I know the fact that I miss him still, after this long, is incredibly lame.
I need to spend more time alone. I am not even talking about boys here. I already decided awhile ago to take a break from dating. But I feel like I've already begun to distance myself from people mentally. Now, I want to do so even more. Just enough so that I can make the time to figure out what it is that I do, or would like to do. And what I would like to talk about. Because so many of the conversations I have aren't about anything at all.
And I'm lonely, but lonely for a sense of something that's missing. I'm lonelier in crowds, when I can feel the emptiness more acutely, than when I'm alone, taking time to relax. I think if a person spends enough time alone they can forget what loneliness is, and just be comfortable. I know I can, because this time last year that's exactly where I was, and it was wonderful. My life was as close to complete as it has ever been.
I listened to JamisonParker this morning. I forgot how much I love that EP.
I'm having a pretty good day. Fell asleep at like 10 last night. Woke up at 7. Did some dishes. Did some laundry. Enjoyed the brightness of my living room, all the big windows and the blinds drawn.
Lately I am so dissatisfied. I feel like ... I don't know ... dead to the world.
I haven't been riding my mountain bike because it's been cold outside. I haven't been playing my guitar because I feel like I suck; and the less I practice, the more I suck. So it just produces this crazy cycle of suckage.
I don't read anything. I read True Love, and half of Maybe, Maybe Not. I read the first page of A Tale of Two Cities. I've read pieces of magazine articles. But for the last few years I could count on one hand how many good books I've read.
Even when I read them, I don't discuss them. I don't think too critically about them. I just let them wash over me. Like water. It feels like doing something. But it's not really. Other than passing time, I suppose.
My schedule is changing. I'm adjusting. It's something I wanted. I let Slicks become some sort of staple in my life. Now I'm away from poeople, and that environment. I don't really miss it. In fact, I'm happier. Just trying to learn a new way to manage my time now that work doesn't take up so much. My nights are free to do as I please. I began to loathe working until 3 a.m., and how I always felt anxious -- like I needed to go out whenever I was off, rather than stay home. Otherwise, mid-week I'd go crazy watching everyone else hang out while I would bring them their drinks.
Now, though, I miss myself. I miss my apartment. Crazy how it sounds, but I think I spent more time at home when I was working two jobs and going to school than I do now.
And I spent so much more time alone. At least a couple hours a day.
I feel like my brain is melting. I don't read the paper or watch the news. I rarely have intelligent conversation. I feel so dispassionate about most things.
And some asshole broke my heart six months ago. Only, he wasn't an asshole. I only say that because I know the fact that I miss him still, after this long, is incredibly lame.
I need to spend more time alone. I am not even talking about boys here. I already decided awhile ago to take a break from dating. But I feel like I've already begun to distance myself from people mentally. Now, I want to do so even more. Just enough so that I can make the time to figure out what it is that I do, or would like to do. And what I would like to talk about. Because so many of the conversations I have aren't about anything at all.
And I'm lonely, but lonely for a sense of something that's missing. I'm lonelier in crowds, when I can feel the emptiness more acutely, than when I'm alone, taking time to relax. I think if a person spends enough time alone they can forget what loneliness is, and just be comfortable. I know I can, because this time last year that's exactly where I was, and it was wonderful. My life was as close to complete as it has ever been.
Labels: Books, College, Depression, JamisonParker, Music, Work
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
She'll hang the baskets on the wall ...
I know I haven't been posting much.
When I'm not just plain not feeling like it, I'm busy.
Making changes again.
Sorta like jumping out of airplane. I've never done that. But I've never done this either.
I'm doing a lot of new things.
Looking for a job. I quit Slicks. I'm looking for a nine-to-fiver. I've got a resume, and I've got teeth. I'm getting better at this. It's definitely stressful. But I'm doing something right because I've had four interviews in the week that I've been on the job market. That's pretty rad.
I'm not bragging. Yesterday I wrote on my MySpace blog that I'm a scared little rabbit, actually.
But I'm trying to learn how to sell myself. I'm trying to be more assertive. To be a go-getter. I think that's who I am, or who I could be, when I'm not wavering.
I started out, and still am, looking for any sort of entry-level job. But what I really want to do is marketing, so I'm pushing for that.
I'm taking this semester off from school because I have been financially irresponsible. I could beat myself up about that, or I could just shrug it off. I'm somewhere in the middle.
But I'm graduating in like a year. Two, three semesters tops. I'm so almost done. It feels good. So I think when I go back in the fall, if not the summer, either way the next academic year will be my last for awhile.
And I love to dream. I still do it all the time. About being a rock star, or falling in love, or taking off and going to Japan.
Even marrying Clark Kent. I think I've fallen in love with Superman.
And when I'm not doing all this shit, I'm listening to Cake. Fucken A, they're awesome. So I'll leave you with this song, which I think about sums up why I don't really mind being single:
"She'll Hang the Baskets"
She'll hang the baskets on the walls --
Don't you know I've seen it all before?
She'll hang the baskets on the walls.
But I've seen it all before,
Heard the slamming of the door --
Come summer, come fall,
Come winter, there'll be baskets on the floor.
He'll go to buy her turtle wax,
But in his mind he won't be coming back.
She'll hang the baskets on the walls,
But I've seen it all before,
Heard the slamming of the door --
Come summer, come fall,
Come winter, there'll be baskets on the floor ...
But I've seen it all before,
Heard the slamming of the door --
Come summer, come fall,
Come winter, there'll be baskets on the floor.
She'll hang the baskets on the wall,
She'll hang the baskets on the wall.
I know I haven't been posting much.
When I'm not just plain not feeling like it, I'm busy.
Making changes again.
Sorta like jumping out of airplane. I've never done that. But I've never done this either.
I'm doing a lot of new things.
Looking for a job. I quit Slicks. I'm looking for a nine-to-fiver. I've got a resume, and I've got teeth. I'm getting better at this. It's definitely stressful. But I'm doing something right because I've had four interviews in the week that I've been on the job market. That's pretty rad.
I'm not bragging. Yesterday I wrote on my MySpace blog that I'm a scared little rabbit, actually.
But I'm trying to learn how to sell myself. I'm trying to be more assertive. To be a go-getter. I think that's who I am, or who I could be, when I'm not wavering.
I started out, and still am, looking for any sort of entry-level job. But what I really want to do is marketing, so I'm pushing for that.
I'm taking this semester off from school because I have been financially irresponsible. I could beat myself up about that, or I could just shrug it off. I'm somewhere in the middle.
But I'm graduating in like a year. Two, three semesters tops. I'm so almost done. It feels good. So I think when I go back in the fall, if not the summer, either way the next academic year will be my last for awhile.
And I love to dream. I still do it all the time. About being a rock star, or falling in love, or taking off and going to Japan.
Even marrying Clark Kent. I think I've fallen in love with Superman.
And when I'm not doing all this shit, I'm listening to Cake. Fucken A, they're awesome. So I'll leave you with this song, which I think about sums up why I don't really mind being single:
"She'll Hang the Baskets"
She'll hang the baskets on the walls --
Don't you know I've seen it all before?
She'll hang the baskets on the walls.
But I've seen it all before,
Heard the slamming of the door --
Come summer, come fall,
Come winter, there'll be baskets on the floor.
He'll go to buy her turtle wax,
But in his mind he won't be coming back.
She'll hang the baskets on the walls,
But I've seen it all before,
Heard the slamming of the door --
Come summer, come fall,
Come winter, there'll be baskets on the floor ...
But I've seen it all before,
Heard the slamming of the door --
Come summer, come fall,
Come winter, there'll be baskets on the floor.
She'll hang the baskets on the wall,
She'll hang the baskets on the wall.
Labels: Cake, MySpace, Superman, Work
