Apologies

It has recently been pointed out to me that I have been insulting an increasing number of people at an alarmingly increased rate.
I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to any of you assholes that I may have offended.
Its understandable that you don't know the difference between Gargamale and Mr. Spacley. I cannot fault any of you for eating a hamburger from McDonalds. I can't fault the college graduate anymore than the bluecollered worker. Its understandable that most of you have to wake up and work in dull jobs that you will never find any real meaning in or fulfillment beyond a weekly paycheck. Such is the world we are raised in. My roommate is actually a really cool girl, despite waking me up at 3 am or 7 am. And hell, we all have to do our laundry sometime.
I do realize that there are those of you that are happy and content and fulfilled and blah, blah, blah. Why would any of you care what I have to say anyway, I obviously have no moral grounds on which to speak down to you. My debasement of you is doubly so an attack upon myself, however most of you have been able to develop, at the very least, the illusion of fulfillment. But hey, if you really are happy why should anything I say matter?

Decision

Starting this spring break I am going to apply for jobs.
Any job.
Every job that either sounds moderately interesting, or that I am moderately qualified for.
Jobs that pay money, jobs that pay crap but will benefit me in some other way (spiritual growth, psychological growth, self growth, marketability, free food), jobs that may lead to other jobs.
Whatever the case, if all goes as planned, I will be one of those lifeless assholes that wakes up everyday at 6 am to go do some ridiculous shit when they would prefer being a hundred other places. That is, they would prefer being a hundred other places until the life is sufficiently sucked out of them and they can't creatively come up with anything more interesting to do.
So if any of you assholes want to hang out anytime soon you better do it soon, because in a few short months I hope to be a lifeless working zombie.

I am fucking cold and I hate my apartment

Friday at 3 in the morning my roommate decided it was a great time to move back into our apartment. She and her girlfriend brought all their things up, watched a little TV, made their bed and did what ever other moronic humdrum activities they felt necessary to "settle in". My fault for being at home on a Friday. I left.

I came back Sunday. At 3 in the morning in come the roommates. I was about to go to bed. I pretended to be asleep already so I don't have to talk to them. I'm reading in my bed with my light and my space heater on when I am suddenly confronted with a load CLICK ushering me into darkness. "What the fuck!" I inwardly mused as I reluctantly opened my door to see what the hell was going on.
It seems that my roommate's room and my room are on the same breaker. She, turning her heater on, overloaded the current draw. No big, I was warm so I turned off my heater and attempted to fall asleep. I have been spoiled by living alone for 2 months anyway.
As I listened to the sound of the TV echoing through the wall, thinly concealing moans from their discourteous mouths, I realized that sleep wasn't happening anytime soon. I turned some music on and read some more. I had a hard time concentrating as I silently pondered the plausibility of living in my car until June.

Tonight I was working on a project with my lab partner, we weren't really done but decided to call it quits around 12. Right as she's leaving the roomies come home. My disdain is diluted by their early arrival which confuses and pleases me at the same time. I suppress my minor contempt but nonetheless retreat back to my room. As they fiddle around and head to bed I silently marvel at the fact that they aren't going to keep me up, or wake me up, or otherwise piss me off.

Turns out I'm a moron.

I flip the heater on in my room. CLICK. Darkness. I turn the heater off and flip the breaker. I unplug every other thing in my room and turn my heater on again at a lower lever. It works, I sit down wondering if I can read by candlelight, Once again confronted by Elimadate echoing through the wall joining our rooms.
CLICK.
At least I don't have to listen to that damn intro jingle. It sounds like porn music on Prozac.

Fuck it.

I knock on their door and ask if they would mind turning their heater to the half way point as well. I think I interrupted something. These amorous women are the same ones that not 2 months ago would consistently wake me (and probably one or two of my neighbors as well) at 7 in the morning screaming and calling each other names that even I wouldn't care to repeat.
They say okay, qualifying it with some passive aggressive comment, but by this time I could give a shit.
I go back into my room and turn my heater back on. I am fooled into thinking we have reached a balance.
I hear the CLICK once more and Elimadate is once again silenced.

I walk out of my apartment leaving a trail of gasoline from my doorway to the laundry room underneath. Someone is using the dryer at 1 in the morning. I laugh hoping to catch their attention. They must be in their apartment. I take their clothes out and soak then in gasoline. I tip the remains of the gas tank over and light a match. I throw it at the cloths. It goes out. I light the whole pack and drop them. Slowly a fire spreads to the old rotting wood of the building structure. I hold my hands out delighted by the warmth that I just minutes ago was lamenting. An unexpected bonus to my immoral act of creation. Suddenly out of the sky I hear a loud "CLICK".

I Wake up in my bed. The breaker just went off again. The apartment is silent except for the sound of the dryer echoing in the laundry room below. Voices drift through my wall, I don't try to discern what they are saying. I roll over and bury my head in the tear stains on my pillow.

Coffee

The man at the counter looked angry. He tapped his watch with irritation and told me I was 15 hours late. I told him that there was traffic. He balked. I realized he wasn't a man at all but merely a reflection of my coffee mug on the table. I took a sip. It was cold. I walked over to the toaster and poured the remains of my syrupy mocha into one of the slots. I turned it on and waited. Nothing happened. I turned the setting up and tapped it. It didn't seem to be working. I decided to ask the person behind the counter if they could help me. They looked at me with irritation and told me to stick my finger in it. I thought this didn't sound like the wisest idea, but then I wasn't a barista. I walked behind the counter and put on a barista apron hoping to gain enlightenment. There was a slight struggle and the police came, I don't remember all the details. When I finally regained consciousness I was lying on the floor inside some sort of cell. I looked through the bars and saw there, in the distance, was a coffee maker. I asked the man in the tie if I could have some. He brought me a wax paper cup filled with the delicious nectar. I peered inside wondering at what temperature the lining would melt. The man in the tie said something about a phone call. I told him to take a message. I took a sip from my coffee. It burnt my lip.

From mundanity to insanity and back

The lady at 7-11 asked me if the party just let out. I lied and said yes. I suppose it wasn't a complete lie since there were people somewhere headed home from a party somewhere. I however wasn't one of them.
I was invited to a party not 5 minutes from my house tonight. I was told to get there after 9. I didn't wake up until 5. I didn't take a shower until 7. I finally managed to gather some will power and leave my house around 9. Not enough will power to go to a party. Instead I got a hamburger. It wasn't that good. So far being able to eat meat has been an utter disappointment.
Around 1o'clock I thought I could be around some people, by then it was already 1 o'clock. So it goes.
The lady at 7-11 was playing her country music slightly too loud for anyone outside of the armed forces to be comfortable with. She said that it had been a strange night from about 22 hundred hours until just after 2. She had a faded tattoo on her forearm peaking slightly out a partially rolled up sleeve. I weakly laughed while silently contemplating how long it would take for her to kill me. There was about 4 feet of counter space between us. I took a step back. I said something about it keeping things interesting and smiled again. She laughed a little too loudly for anyone sober at 3 in the morning to be comfortable with. I thanked her and declined a bag. I grabbed my Gatorade and left.
As I stepped outside a cop car came speeding around the corner. I stared at it incredulously. I fantasized for a moment about stepping in front of it. I saw myself rolling up the windshield and smashing the light bar. I fantasied about the cops reaction as he skidded on the brakes far to late to do any good. I wanted to bounce off his car to spite him. I wanted to lie bleeding on the sidewalk to ruin his night. I imagined him watch me get whisked off to a hospital somewhere, bleeding in a ambulance with two strangers huddled over me trying to save my as yet worthless life. I imagined the tapestry of his life being somehow tied to me. Each beep of the cardiac monitor pulling more and more of the fabric of his life apart, like a string on a too worn sweater, pulled in time to the beating of my dying heart. The medics trying not only to save my life, but his as well. I didn't even know him yet, for a moment, I wanted to ruin him.
He sped off down the street to what I assumed was some sort of crisis. Or what someone interpreted as some sort of crisis. The drama of someone else's life spilling over into his like it mattered. I suddenly felt sorry for him.
As I walked home I realized that I had forgotten the candy that was the reason I went to the store in the first place. It didn't matter though. I sipped my Gatorade and sincerely smiled for the first time in awhile.
It's very peaceful at 3am.

I'm back and I hate it here

After nearly two years of idealistic struggle and self imposed limitations I have chosen to sacrifice my good intentions on the alter of practicality and fiscal constraint. I have, today, decided to rejoin the carnivorous masses and eat heartily from the flesh of the exploited. My self imposed exile has ended and I feel none the better for it. Today the slaughterhouse worker will ever so suddenly feel the burden of increased meat demand. The assembly line will increase its speed ever so slightly and my meal will be christened with the blood and sweat of over-worked, underpaid laborers, parting up an unslaughtered cow, still half-conscious from a rushed attempt to kill it. A migrant worker with no savings and no health benifits may get lucky today and only lose a finger in the rush to keep up with the slaughter line. Today there will be one more hideously mistreated chicken, insane from being confined in a inhumanely small cage, pecking at its neighbor with the deformed stub of a beak long ago cut off, as it defecates into the food bin of the cage below it. Tortured and mutilated to fulfill my lustful appetite. All to benifit the rich owners of giant corporations who will be able to line their pockets with a few more dollars, and, in turn, politicians, who will be able to line their war chest with a few more lives. My apathy is tainted with disgust, like a hamburger tainted with food borne pathogens. Welcome me back assholes.

Childhood

All I remember of my childhood are little snapshots of memories. Short little tidbits of socially acceptable stories. If we were to sit down I could probably go over the first 10 years of my life in about 10 minutes.
A psychology text on personality assessment would probably categorize this as a sign of an avoidant personality disorder. An insecure attachment. It would say I am an individual that is likely to keep people at arms length in order to prevent them from having the power to reject me.
I think I just don't have a very good memory.

When I was about 7 or 8 I was assigned a project about light. It was for a class presentation. I was working on a poster with my mom that demonstrated how light split up into the 7 different colors of the rainbow.
A social psychologist would tell you that this was not a universal truth. That there are some cultures that separate the different bandwidths of light in very different ways. A cognitive psychologist may tell you that the perception of light is largely determined by what one is taught to see. When I was 7 or 8 I couldn't care less about what the hell makes up a rainbow. I didn't want to do the project. I was just messing around.
In the eyes of a developmental psychologist I was probably just trying to get attention from my mom.
I would venture to say that I was probably just bored, or wanted to play, or thought that the idea of doing this project was fundamentally flawed in the first place, and my time would be better spent doing a multitude of other things...
Whatever the case my mom didn't like it too much. She was probably under stress already. She was probably tired. She undoubtedly had alot of other things she needed to do and even more she would rather be doing.
She yelled at me.
She told me that I didn't have to do the project if I didn't want to. She told me to go clean the bathroom instead because all I'd ever be was a janitor.

Being 7 or 8 I didn't understand that my mom was probably under alot of stress.
Perhaps her life hadn't turned out the way she had planned. Perhaps she was working hard to support her family. Perhaps she was beginning to feel the strain of a marriage that would take another decade to finally disintegrate.
Any developmental psychologist would tell you that there was no way that a child that young could grasp those ideas.
That their ego development was far to immature. Yet I knew that my mom was upset, and I thought it was because of me.
I did the poster project.

Looking back on it now I probably should have gone to clean the bathroom. My mom wasn't really mad at me, and would still love me even if I were a janitor. And as a janitor I would make a hell of alot more money that I will with a damn psychology degree.

Statement of intent

Having just started this blog I know that many of you are probably wondering, who the hell is this guy? Why the hell is he writing anything, and why would I give one rats shit what he has to say? Isn't my time better spent watching mindless reality television shows and eating highly processed foods?
Well friends, these are all valid questions you raise and I will be more than willing to discuss each and every one of them with you in person. Just leave your home address, and the hours I may find you there. I wouldn't want to disturb your dinner or sleep, so if you could please include the time of day you normally eat and go to bed. It would also be helpful if you could add the best way to gain entry to your house. In the meantime feel free to criticize all you'd like.