Again, I feel run over when I wake up. I think all my life oozed out of me when I was passed out. My grandma woke me up early because she has a doctor's appointment and doesn't want to drive to Meredith twice. So I'm at work at 8:30. I vaguely realize today is Friday the 13th.
This is my last day at Financial Resources. Next week, I start for the Laconia Citizen. I forgot to mention, my second duty there will be to write feature stories. They aren't hardcore news, but they're easy to write and a little bit more creative than front-page garbage. The column I'll be doing is called 'Lake Faces', some lame, candy-ass profile of interesting people in the Lakes Region. (Where I live is in the dead center of New Hampshire, surrounded by the biggest lakes in the state. Hence, the place I live is called Center Harbor. Laconia, where the paper is located, is about 30 minutes away.) I am excited about it anyway.
As I trudge into my office and shut the door, I realize that someone stole my blinds. Why would someone take my blinds? As the angry New Hampshire sun glares off my computer screen, some guy comes into my office and takes the chair I use as a footrest. This one woman keeps staring at me whenever I walk by her office to use the bathroom. What the hell.
My mother used to work at Financial Resources when I was too young to remember. It's kind of weird to think about. She wrote checks or something. At least she had it somewhat easy.
I'm beginning to think of everything as data entry. Everything. Typing up this blog. Sending a text message. Flushing a toilet. And it is, sure, but still, you shouldn't think these things. It's unhealthy, it makes everything a chore. Those little captcha things all over the internet, I used to find them annoying til I learned what they really are. They're a primitive type of the Turing test and for awhile, whenever I entered in xk23tlv or whatever, I thought to myself, at least I'm not a computer! Now I just think, more data entry.
I wrote myself a little resumé for all the jobs I've been applying to. It's weird. It's a one page document about how much paid slavery I've done, how I'm prepared and willing to do more. All those stupid applications I filled out for restaurant jobs I didn't even want, they kept asking if I had any special skills. I thought, sure, but they aren't gonna help. I can paint and take bad pictures and write, but that won't make me better at cleaning up spills in the bathroom. I slowly discovered I have some pretty nifty skills, like typing, a driver's license, HTML knowledge. Those three, that's as far as I got, but who'd think that job applications would bring self-discovery?
My last day at Financial Resources wasn't bad, mostly because I took an hour and a half lunch with my cousin. We grabbed pizza and drove to his house. On the way he accidentally ran over a black garter snake that was slithering across the road. We mashed it something awful. I had him pull over and took snapshots of it. It was still alive, squirming in a pool of its own guts. Later, when I told people about it, they felt bad for the thing. My grandpa asked me why I didn't put it out of its misery. I don't know. Would that have suddenly made me compassionate or even more twisted and sick?
I went to the youth group my cousins go to sometimes. We played sporty games and I felt like a stupid kid again. We watched a video, some speaker guy talking about the immensity of the universe and how we measure up and the complexity of life inside me. How God cares about me anyway. I really hate those kinds of things, big, stupid number games and thinking about those quadrillions of lightyears that I will never, ever travel. But I love them too. Is there some kind of sick, masochist complex about me that likes feeling small when pressed up against the screen of the universe?
The obvious answer is, yes.
When I dream, my inferiority complexes will fade into nothing. And I'll be fine.
No comments:
Post a Comment