Foul mood = whiny post.
Skip it if you’re sick of the whining. It’s likely all things I’ve whined about before.
Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
What is the point, really?
I find myself, for lack of a better explanation, bored with life.
Each morning I get up, against my will, hating the still-dark sky, to go to a job I hate. I put on clothing that is marginally corporate-acceptable, but I’d rather wear pajamas.
Why not? It’s not like I ever see clients. Why should I wear a suit?
Because I’m poorer than I’d like (and more often than not, running late), I usually forego a trip to St@rbuck’s for good coffee, instead choosing to drink the shitty stuff at the office. Then, I spend the day trying to convince myself to do something useful, even though I couldn’t give a crap.
I realized long ago that I would never be a great designer. I will always be nothing more than a drone. I will continue to come to work every day, sit in my cubicle, and overhear the conversations of designers who sit six feet away from me. They are 3-5 years older than I am. I made a few wrong turns in my career path. Obviously.
I’ve tried to get a former coworker of mine hired on, so I could at least get a referral bonus. He’s a good worker, and has experience similar to mine. The company passed him over, but has since hired several people referred by employees who have been here a few months or less.
Hack n’ Snort, who is an idiot architecturally, has begun playing golf with some of the higher-ups. I feel that this puts him at an advantage with the management. I don’t play golf.
I have no dreams. Try as I might to find something to aspire to, I come up with nothing even remotely attainable.
After work, I go home to a house whose payments have us under an oppressive thumb. I often think of selling it, just to improve the financial situation. We don’t have the money to do anything to fix it up to our liking. We simply continue to pay, and simply exist within it. Also, it smells of dog piss that ManThing can’t smell.
I do laundry.
I watch crappy TV.
I wash dishes.
I am 31, and I can barely walk right now. Thirty-fucking-one. I have never had any trauma occur to my hip, yet it has ceased to function properly. I’m in physical therapy. When I first stand up and begin to walk, it feels like I’m 80.
My digestive system is 12 kinds of wrong. I've been to a GI doctor, and had every test you can have, yet he found nothing. It doesn't seem to matter what I do or don't eat, I just have problems. The bathroom and I spend way too much quality time together; or not enough, dependent on what form of torture my stomach plagues me with at the time.
I am a good driver; I’ve never had an accident, or a ticket. My insurance premium still goes up with every renewal.
The new movies all suck.
I’m too fat to wear the clothes that are in style.
I’m too much of a realist to think that an optimistic outlook could possibly work.
I don’t ask, “what is the meaning of life?” I ask, “what’s the fucking point?”