Thursday, May 29, 2003

I, for one, will always laugh at these dated jokes...

Picture of one guy: How do you know Iraq has weapons of mass destructions?
Picture of Bush: We kept the receipts!

Wednesday, May 28, 2003

The Bummer of Outslacking the Slacker

I have a co-worker who is a bit of a slacker. He is a godsend! I love him! I used to be quite conscientious. Thanks to him I can slack more. Ordinarily, I try to match him only. However, we were working on projects and out of contact for a few days. He actually finished the project on time. I was unable to temper my pace to come in at the exact same time the way I usually do.

Shit! I outslacked him! I was sure that he would outslack me and I would finish first...Now I'm officially 'late.' I'm the last one in.

As thrilling as it was when this laid back guy replaced the uptight one (he left to make more money), he's wreaking havoc with my motivation. Laid back guy comes from privilege, natch. Hard-working dude is first generation away from manual labor and I am one generation removed from manual labor. Hard working dude went to middle range public u. in the U.S. Laid back guy went to UK U. where they make your bed for you in the morning. (Yeah, one of those places.) I am in the middle: top ranked public u. Hard working dude was uptight and no fun. He was competitive and one always had the fear that he would rat you out. Laid back guy is not exactly Mr. Discreet, I've discovered. But he wouldn't backstab you. Why should he? He's got nothing to lose.

You get the picture. Must remember that laid back guy's dad is a multi-millionaire and his mom owns some kind of castle thing in France. And temper my motivation with the realization that there is no cushion for me when I fall.

Now it's time to actually finish the damn thing. Well, at least I will see the sun come up.

Monday, May 26, 2003

Note to self: It might be the human condition. Do not seek medication.

Yes, like all wimpy moderns I decided I wanted a safe bridge over that river o' dread one must cross quite frequently in life.
Wading through is exhausting. So I medicated. I tampered with brain chemistry in such a way the deep injustice and horror of the universe wouldn't be so very apparent. I took the easy way out, alright? Shoot me!

My main theory--If you read my many excuses you will see my general theory about the behavior it is most advisable to display in the modern world is: Appear Efficient and Productive.

This isn't a beneficial 'win friends and influence people.' That was optional advice to climb even higher on the ladder. This is necessary: Keep one's middle class ass in the middle class sling of professionalism. Without that cheery facade (OK, in my case it was a facade, maybe you really are efficient) say hello to the lower depths of the economic slag heap. Only those without major, major trust funds can afford to be moody or outraged or traumatized. The rest of us who live on the edge where we still have health insurance are forced to be amusing and reassuringly content with our lot in life.

I'm not all that unamusing or discontented. At least not all the time. Yet, I know I can be. I wanted that extra biochemical reassurance. I wanted to know my brain chemistry wouldn't fail me. I wanted to make sure I didn't say things like "We're doomed" etc. around those who outrank me in the hierarchy and so decide my fate.

I wanted to make people laugh. In the past, this has been a great help to me. My ability to be charming and humorous is the main way I got one of those jobs with benefits. One of the main ways I'm still in the upper echelons and needn't hang my head in shame in our status crazed society.

I was afraid to take chance with my good luck. So I did a little seratonin tampering.

Yeah, yeah. I've read the lame ass Harper's articles about how we should not take Prozac (not what I was on by the way) so we can all be Dostoevsky. Whatever. Sure, it's great to be Dostoevsky 100 years from now. When you are dead. But being Dostoevsky when you are in your early thirties (and lack his talent) is a one way ticket to scanning bar codes. Or worse.

My commercial for these drugs is: Economics--Ya can't beat it. Ya gotta join it. And SSRI's make it all possible.

Anyone who has read this bla bla knows that I am painfully aware of our imminent destruction, etc. I'm not just la-de-da no matter how many SSRI's or whatever other drugs I manage to get my hands on. I'm still obsessed with evil and death but just a little more able to distract myself and appear to enjoy life.

I didn't need this help until I hit the professional scene. Back in college, my moody and confused vibe drew a number of people. The cool people. They liked it that I seemed to toy with the idea of suicide. I remember my super beautiful cool friend ( Red Hot Chili Peppers). I said to her after a night of debauchery: "If people were looking at us right now they'd think we were having a lot of fun." I remember her saying "We are having a lot of fun." My inability to have fun somehow made me popular back in the day...

But ya can't count on that. Interesting idiosyncrasies have to be tempered with normalcy after a certain period in life.

In fact, I wanted not to make a commercial but to make a public service announcement: I'm going off these drugs. Phew! I've never felt so horrible. Not mentally, physically. It was 9 months ago I ran this experiment on my brain. Who would have thought that something they advertise in women's magazines and on TV could make you so ill? Honestly, if I didn't discover through the internet what all doctors forget to tell you (or seem not to know) that this sort of thing makes you feel so so so crappy I would never have guessed. I thought I might have some sort of heavy metal poisoning.

Hey, who put mercury in my orange juice?

I'd suggest you take your chances with moodiness and outrage over stupidity and injustice breaking out when around the higher ups or those you must impress. Really. I dreamed that Marie Antoinette was haunting me and woke up screaming. I dreamed my husband and I stole money, the person we stole it from was murdered and then we had to hide the body. The mob, the white supremacists and the FBI were all looking for us. I've had about 20 nightmares in the last 7 days. My poor chico can't sleep when he hears me yelling in my sleep.

Whatta mess. All 'cause I wanted to take the easy way out.