Honey, I'm home.
I know you missed me terribly. I know you cried into snot-sticky tissues waiting for me to walk in the door, or at least call and tell you I'd had some horrendous accident and that's why I'm late. I know you secretly hated my escape from your world, thinking I had it better over here, in The Real World. I know you would never admit to that hate, but you wouldn't deny it either, simply take another swig/sip of martini and smile and say how happy you are to see me again.
Sweetheart, let me tell you: The Real World ain't all it's cracked up to be. The Real World, quite frankly, sucks ass.
And so I'm back, writing basically to myself but unafraid to admit that I will promptly go back to looking for comments like a little kid looks for signs of Santa on Christmas morning. Fool me, please; I loved to be loved.
Last I had posted, I'd gotten my hair styled after having been forced by uncooperative finances to move back in with my parents. Looking back, that styling - and the soon after chopping, highlighting, and then hiding under a hat - was a cry for control. I had just lost my autonomy, so to make myself feel better I fucked with my hair. It happens everytime. I get depressed or even mildly bored and BLAM! There goes the hair, either died some unfortunately unnatural color (I adore purple) or chopped ridiculously short ... buzzed even, everywhere but the bangs. I'm lucky enough that my head is just shapely enough for me to get away with such a bold look, but it's not so shapely that everyone loves it. I usually gather strange looks, and rumor-starting whispers of lesbianism. This last time, to stave off the truly ignorant hordes in this town and keep their noses out of my sexuality, I merely got a modified bob-cut. It's cute, I suppose, but with my hair being as ridiculously thick (and rather wavy) as it is, if I don't dominate it with a strict regimen of spray, gel, cream, and an assortment of barretts and such, I tend to take on the mushroom-head look.
Alternately, this could be referred to as the poodle look.
The look, unfortunately, it nowhere near as charming as a poodle, not to mention a mushroom. I have, since about late April, worn a hat on a regular basis. This works well enough, except for the floof of spastic hair behind my ears and at my neck that insists on making itself highly visible by sticking out nearly perpendicular to my head where it sticks out below the edge of the hat. From about mid-ear up, I'm sleek and sexy and a nice, cute school-boy-type hat.
From about mid-ears down, I'm a soft puffer-fish impression.
Sort of ruins the effect, you know?
All of this is to give you a general idea of my outlook on life as of late: if I have to tools to make people and things do what I want, I'm happy. Should said people and things revert to their natural (and not terribly intelligent) state, I'm mad as a wet hen (and about as attractive, I'm sure). Hence, while I've had some rather "good-hair" days over the last few months, there's almost alway's thay nagging perpendicular "floof" to ruin it for me.
Floof One: A quick recap. We're ridiculously understaffed at work. And we're not paid enough. And our wages were cut. And our hours. Ok, I got my 10 hours back, but am still paid less than I was not even one year ago, and there's still only two people left in my department.
Floof Two: Dumbasses. My work is chock full of 'em. You knew that; I'm simply reminding you that it hasn't changed yet.
Floof Three: Stone-age equipment. I'm coming up with new and inventive ways of opening Microsoft Word documents.
Floof Four: Goblin bites and scratches really, really hard. In case youv'e forgotten, Goblin is the red-headed-step-child of cats, a year-and-a-half old orange tabby. True to his namesake, he is mischevious, elusive, stinky, a bed-hog, and painful. He scratched me hard enough a month or so ago that I was tempted to come into work with a first-aid bandage around my wrist, sobby-eyed and cringing from stupid people, to add to the look that I'd slashed my wrist in a failed attempt to end it all. I mean, I had the slash-wound; I might as well have played it up, right? Matt currently bears five scratches over his left eye- three just above the eyebrow and two on the eyebrow. He's been drawing about as many worried looks as my wrist was. Thus far, scolding him, hissing at him, spanking him, chasing him all throughout the house two or three times, locking him up in the kennel for an hour, and soaking him with the Super Soaker isn't doing much to teach Goblin a lesson about his unsociable behaviors. Perhaps if we put tabasco sauce in said Super Soaker? Hmmmm ...
Amidst all this floofery, I'm still in school. Still doing very well, thank you, but February cannot come soon enough (that's when I graduate, finally). I just started up a new marketing class this week, and glancing at the assignments yesterday I could not hide a groan- it's going to be a lot of work, and I really just want to curl up with a good book and some hot cocoa.
At least it's actually a marketing class. My last one was about selling and customer service. Despite working with idiots so long, I still find it hard to believe that we actually need an entire advanced college course devoted to how to treat customers nicely. Are people seriously so stupid that they wouldn't act the way the textbook says they should? Seriously? Business professionals could be that amazingly dumb? Sadly, I can see it.
Needless to say, I passed with flying colors. It's pretty fucking simple: your customer and their needs come before the sale. Always. No matter how big the potential sale. No matter how much to need to meet some silly little sales quota. Duh. If the customer gets the inkling you don't give a damn about them and only want to get their money (whether it's good for them or not), there are a billion other sellers they can turn to and receive good customer service rather than put up with your bullshit. Show them that you care abot them, however, even if it means downselling because it's best for their needs in the long run, and voila! Happy customer. Returning customer. Telling all theri friends and business associates about you customer. Do people really, seriously, truly not understand that? I despair, again, for humanity.
Floof Five: Finances. Oh, let's just not even go there, OK?
Despite all of this, I'm trying like hell to be quite Buddhist about everything - the good, the bad, and the ugly alike. I already understand that life is suffering and nothing lasts and you can't take it with you and nothing really matters except living peacefully in this moment and leaving no residue from it for the next moment. I understand that anger really only poisons me. I understand that standing up for what's right and good is really about as useful in the end as setting oneself on fire.
I understand; I really do. I just have this foot-stomping little six-year-old spirit in me that still believes that life is supposed to be golden and shiny and wonderful and all the good people will be happy and fortunate and all the bad people will learn the error of their ways and so cease to be bad people, thereby joining the glittering ranks of people who have a good head on their shoulders and are really good at croquet. This little six-year-old spirit is jaw-droppingly stubborn most of the time, and I can't help it but she charms the hell out of me, leaving me foot-stomping and torch-carrying and soap-box teetering and wondering at the end of the day why life sucks so badly so much of the time.
Talk about your existential crisis. I know life sucks and won't get any better until and unless I embrace the low and the stupid, but damnit, I loathe the low and the stupid not out of some elitist sense of pride or superiority but because the low and the stupid are the ones who keep dragging all the shiny golden wonderfulness out of life. They're the ones always making life mind-bogglingly, destructively hard when it really can and should be quite simple and smooth. That's kind of a sick and twisted circle, ya know? Love the low and the stupid rather than letting it get you down ... thereby affirming and rewarding the low and the stupid and creating fertile ground for ever more low and stupid acts.
Right. Because then at least I won't be poisoned by my own anger; I can just let it all ride right over me as I do nothing to make a difference or be happy. I will then, supposedly, be at peace with my low and stupid world.
Ya know, I'm not really sure Buddhism is entirely my thing. There's a lot I do agree with, but this "life is suffering so accept it and you will stop suffering" is a crock, if you ask me.
I think the much-acclaimed and storied buddha was an alien from outter space, sent to trigger a wave of apathy in humans to make it easier for his colleagues to beam down to earth and obliterate us all like roaches. Not that I'd entirely disagree with the roach connection; I just think it's awfully sneaky, and terribly genius, and I'm not at all sure if I'm stupid enough or smart enough to appreciate understanding it.
Ahem.
And that about sums up my general attitude during the time I've been away.
Nothing new, really. Sorry. If I had some grand adventure or revelation to share, I'd have shared it already. As it is, I still think I'm smarter than easily half the people around me, and rather than finding that comforting it scares the hell out of me.
Maybe I'll just try some cat photos and videos for a while. What do you say?
