This post is rated PG-13 for a bit of cigar room language (just some color, I’m not describing a sexy colonoscopy or anything…)
At work now. Everything possible that could happen that is just bad … has. Of course this is a hyperbole, but I like to take my liberties.
You know that famous movie quote, “I’m not even supposed to be here today?” Well, I actually am supposed to be here today … and yet I didn’t really press hard enough to get out of it. I could bitch and moan, I suppose. I don’t know. A couple good things happened. I don’t really seize the day as effectively as I could though. I suppose it could get worse.
I have voided the cash register nine zillion times. When I have a bad day … I have a BAAAAADDDD day. They should just completely write this day off. Just pretend it didn’t really happen. I don’t even really want to get into why it happened.
I have magical powers. I’ll just come out and say it.
This is not something that I talk about very often. This is something that I’ve been in denial about for a really long time.
When someone comes up to you and says “I have magical powers,” you tend to look at them funny. But the way that this has manifested itself in my life is that I feel things. On the outside. I feel when things are wrong. And then stuff happens. It’s nothing huge. And there’s a huge level of deniability about it – both from other people and from myself. Just because it could be that I’m having a bad day. I could be on my period. Overreacting. Just plain wrong.
But I’m not usually doing any of those things.
It’s so abstract. Someone says something really horrible. Or wrong. And it’s so subtle. And I just start panicking. And people like me are so sensitive to these things. Sometimes I know it’s going to happen before it happens. I can see the patterns. Sometimes I even smell them. Which is really … just … weird.
Some people just smell wrong. Some of the people around here smell wrong.
And then there are people who smell right. But I’ve been wrong before. Some people who have smelled right in the past have allowed themselves to decay. There are people who have been around me before and have gotten scared. Hell, I’m afraid to even type this. It’s freaky shit.
But it needs to be talked about. Because my radar is up all the time. Hell, I could always just … deny it. Say … this is all just fiction dude. I write science fiction. What’s real? What’s allegory? What do you know?
Something that bothered me happened yesterday. People’s attitudes toward me have gotten … well, let’s just say they’ve gotten more apparent. As a result I’ve become uncomfortable. Because I’m not good at swallowing discomfort, I am one of those people who just deconstructs. Falls apart. Not good. I don’t really know what to do about that, but I can’t really suck it up.
Once again, thumb up my butt, sounding like Woody Allen. I’m not prepared for the onslaught. I even discussed this with my husband on the way to work. I have to build myself some kind of a temple or it’s just not going to go well for me. But I can’t make myself impervious to every kind of attack. I was talking to this person that I’m starting to feel safe around – this very old soul … but I was just sitting there stone-struck. I couldn’t make my lips move. I couldn’t commit to it. It was like I couldn’t bring myself to make any sense. I wouldn’t let myself come out of my cage. I wanted to explain what had happened. But I don’t dare. there is the bitching about it factor. People don’t want to hear about it, and I don’t want to do it.
But when I’m completing the daily sheet for today, and I’m thinking of that like it’s a metaphor – I’m thinking of other things too. I’m becoming passive aggressive. I get asked if I still play the piano.
Nope. I quit. I receive a stunned silence as a response. Just kidding. I say. Then I riff on that for a while. I do some deadpan morbid bullshit – some cryptic goth-chick problem child don’t-give-a-rat’s-ass attitude problem behavior. Who knows? But it’s not right, and I shouldn’t do it. What is my response supposed to be? I’m thinking, Of course I’m still a musician … I’ve been mixing my original songs, right here, behind the counter, people. I practice 5 hours a day. You don’t tell people this. It’s tacky.
The appropriate answer is “when my husband can spare me from my duties as wife and future mother; I play for his (and my) enjoyment. Hopefully someday I can have little ones and we can spare my reduced income here; having purchased a home.”
So the daily sheet says “lots of mistakes were made” and I want to protest not all by me. My new friend says I shouldn’t have to explain myself. And I’m defensive and bitter because I’m always doing so. This has all got to stop. And it’d better be soon – I can feel it in my complexion and my fitness level.