Someone came up to my desk today and asked

Do you ever write anymore?

And I knew exactly what he meant. I don’t. I crank out these retarded little movie reviews that are as boring to read as they are to write, but make me feel like I’ve written something. I haven’t, and I’m wasting both your and my time. And I think I may know why.

Last week, even though Friday was a holiday, I still managed to put in 45 hours, and it’s getting to be the norm. I know other people do that sort of time standing on their heads, but I don’t. I’ve worked nearly every weekend, never eat lunch, and rarely get out of work on time. By the time I get home, I really don’t give enough of a shit about anything to move my ass out from in front of the idiot box, nevermind getting my mind clear enough to sit down and pour something coherent out.

I suppose if all of our jobs were these wondrous hours where we dedicated ourselves to projects that bring out the best in us and the world, rather than just whoring ourselves, selling the only commodity that giant corporations haven’t figured out how to undersell us on (our labor), then when we got home, we wouldn’t even need to spend time unwinding, or shutting down our brains. We could scrutinize our time, and not be faced with the reality that for a good portion of our time, we’re completely wasting our lives (You can accuse me of being overly dramatic on this if you can think back to the last meeting that you were in, and tell me that you couldn’t have thought of a better way to spend your time.) And even when I look at a maximum lifetime of 100 years, it just doesn’t seem like enough time to figure things out, nevermind get anything done.

And this week, this has been bothering me. It’s not just the job. It’s everything: The TV and the radio always seem to be on, derailing any ability that I have to sit and think clearly. I’m not sure if I’m living the life that I want to lead, and I don’t know if the life that I want to lead is made up of my own desires or desires manufactured from a well-targeted marketing scheme. And I really have this nagging feeling that I will never be president.

Today, as if timing were everything, a friend asked me if I could’ve be doing anything at that moment, what would it have been? Because I had just completely wasted 2 hours in a meeting trying to listen to a very knowledeable security expert speak while an audience member consistently derailed his presentation by trying to make themselves the focus of the meeting, and I had messages from two local, and two global sites that needed my help to get them back on track, all while trying to keep my own corporate-wide initiatives moving along, I went just the slightest bit

blank.

I imagine that the purpose of the question was to unconsciously unleash the direction of my true calling in life, but all it did was provide me with an image of myself laying on my back, on the floor in my apartment, simply listening to myself breathe.

And if that is the best dream that I can muster, then something is wrong. Laying on my back should be some sort of recovery from climbing Everest, not the Everest itself.

Posted in Misc., Philosophical BS, Work