[573] Sweatpants

My prevailing thought for the last week or so has been that I’m too tired to write. Having picked up a few jobs and managing to schedule them stupidly, I haven’t been sleeping well and find myself with enough back and foot pain to throb for hours. Only part of it is the physical exhaustion though, as the tasks I’m engaging in for money are such old news and so familiar that I was bored with them 10 or 12 years ago let alone after my reintroduction now. It takes no extra undue besmirching of general labor to hate the culture, the people, the dialogues, or the vapid power games exerted on you through spite and insecurity.

I’ve always thought I could make more sense of it. I’ve always thought that while I may be consigned into slavery-adjacent tasks, that was never who I was. I’m choosing routes that I can option into other things. I’m choosing settings where the expectations are low, ignorant, and petty. I don’t enjoy these things or refuse to expect more out of myself. When asked, “Having fun yet?” I don’t even give you the courtesy of sarcasm. Fuck no I’m not having fun and you’re stupid for asking. “What do you think of the job?” It’s a job you fat propagandist.

What’s persistently scared me about humanity is that we don’t want to get better. Hundreds of thousands of television shows and millions of books or short stories highlight individual characters with their roles to play, but no matter how many people ever manage to be born, there will only be a relative handful whose stories will truly stick out to me. That doesn’t mean it’s defaulted to the rich or famous. It’s those with an awareness that they’re in the story in the first place and are doing everything they know how to make it theirs.

Because what do you hear in the normal world? “Yeah, I told them about it, but it’s been broken for years.” “You know, daddy didn’t raise no fool, I’m just doing this job here because it keeps me off the streets.” “Me and my husband have worked for this company for 17 years, and while they don’t have a spouse-covering health care plan, it’s a wonderful and caring place that truly wants you to love working here!” “Hey, at least I got to live my dream for a few years before I ended up here!”

It’s the most evil and ridiculous person, according to the rules, who would point out that excuses and ignorance are deadly and vicious and they’re not going to play along. I don’t even know what to call the face of the person who can’t handle or hear the truth. Indignant comes to mind. They’re taken aback. Under it all is fear though. You went right for the words they can’t deal with and now they’re afraid of you and prepared to lash out. What did I do to deserve my lot? I tried to account for it accurately. In hoping to hold myself more accountable than you, I ride the rocky waves of your emotional oceans. I’m crippled by your fears because your fears dominate the landscape.

That it’s not even hyperbole is what literally kills me. I say, “Teach me this thing you’re into Friday, I’d like to try and expand it.” Your response, “It’s just a hobby. Yeah it’s fun. I’ve been so busy lately. I don’t know that much about it.” I say, “Oh, you have this particular skill? What’s stopping you from surmounting your circumstances and doubling down?” Your response, “I know a lot of people in that world. I was real good at what I did. I don’t actually have a car right now. I’ve put my time in already.” I was making solid enough cash with drug studies and bitch more in ten minutes about the regular working world than I hear out of you in years, and it took me all of 2 weeks to adopt 3 jobs in service to my goals. I. FUCKING. HATE. EXCUSES. The only real business I’m in is to rip yours from your cold stupid hands.

Do you hear me praising my “work ethic?” Fuck no! I’m being exploited, like you’re being exploited. I’d be wildly wasting my time if I wasn’t using it to synonymously listen to Radiolab, Dan Carlin, and books on tape. I’ll set up my tablet to keep watching my shows while I deliver food. I won’t let myself be consumed by my added obligations. As I’ve stated before, I’m going to take what you do or what you expect or claim and make it mine. Jobs aren’t yours to give me, they’re mine to create or take. Money isn’t my god to be worshiped at the expense of my body or self-respect. It’s the thing I’m incidentally accruing while I watch TV or learn more about the world.

I have a friend who said it brought him so much joy to see me in uniform slumming it restocking shelves. This friend who I’m working to save up the money to build him a place to stay that he can live in for free. This friend who I want to build a garage as well so he can independently have a place to exercise his skills fixing cars. It brought him joy to see me as a peasant. This is sad. This is damaged. Just because you’re doing it too or understand the pain and frustration doesn’t mean you should opt to revel in an odd selfish solidarity. It would mean something to me if it pissed you off that it caught back up to me. It would mean something if you saw me and were emboldened to more actively pursue your goals. Don’t fucking tell me it brings you joy to watch me kill myself.

I may be tired, and angry, and full of demeaning and depressing quips, but I’m not dead. Having to walk among them and fend off bites is just the added bonus of inserting myself into the drudgery. Right now absolutely sucks. Right now feels like condemnation and waste. Right now is a struggle to barely exist tagging between worlds that have swallowed everyone around me. Right now I’m practically nothing. When I get through, not years from now, then you’ll hear about whether I’m having fun. You’ll hear how my approach to your struggle will have nothing to do with enjoying it. No matter how long I have to live in this world, your complicit psychosis won’t become mine.