.12 hour work day.
says a girl who hates her job: it's amazing how little positive feedback i need to be willing and eager to work a twelve hour day.
it's true. i'm a gluton for "good job!" and "thanks for staying late!" i'll do anything, apparently, as long as i can feel good at it. and i'm happier for it.
i've given up, suddenly, on all of my alternate plans. consequently, i'm down one obsessive preoccuption and in dire need of another. what's it gonna be? booze? work? maybe i should take a photography class? or a trip! maybe i should sew something or finish reading anna karenina. maybe i should decide that i'm insane and read webmd until i've diagnosed myself with an improbable disease and go around asking my friends: do i look jaundiced to you?
it's true, over an over. free time is a death wish. it doesn't take me more than a few hours of sitting around on saturday afternoon before i've given up all hope of happiness and hide under blankets and cat hair on my couch.
there are several preoccupations that i've had particular success with. the first and foremost is school, classes, homework. i can study harder than whores can snort smack off of public toilets. i can sacrifice sleep, food, exercise, and fun all for the illusion of greater meaning and purpose. as much as i complain about it, i'm never happier than when i'm working too hard.
number two is classic, but i feel like i put my own original spin on obsessing over relationships. imaginary are the best. the real ones don't seem to have the same pizzaz and possibility. the best relationships i've had are the ones where someone in the produce isle at the corner store grazes my sleeve and i spend weeks making up stories about it. about the build up, the watching and waiting over ripe bananas. the breakdown into ugly grunts and bruising embraces over the organic grapefruits. and please don't get the wrong idea: physical fantasies don't have shit on the twisted emotional dramas i engage in my head. don't get me started.
so i'm trying to get into a new groove. that is not to say that i will attempt not to obsess, because old habits die hard and this one is in my bones. it's just the way my neurons fire: quick and far in one persistent direction. the truth is i don't dislike it: i thrive on it. and i don't wish to change it. i just wish to indulge in productive delusions. perhaps: art, writing, reading? running?
it's too bad running doesn't tempt like cigarettes and destructive fantasies.
it's true. i'm a gluton for "good job!" and "thanks for staying late!" i'll do anything, apparently, as long as i can feel good at it. and i'm happier for it.
i've given up, suddenly, on all of my alternate plans. consequently, i'm down one obsessive preoccuption and in dire need of another. what's it gonna be? booze? work? maybe i should take a photography class? or a trip! maybe i should sew something or finish reading anna karenina. maybe i should decide that i'm insane and read webmd until i've diagnosed myself with an improbable disease and go around asking my friends: do i look jaundiced to you?
it's true, over an over. free time is a death wish. it doesn't take me more than a few hours of sitting around on saturday afternoon before i've given up all hope of happiness and hide under blankets and cat hair on my couch.
there are several preoccupations that i've had particular success with. the first and foremost is school, classes, homework. i can study harder than whores can snort smack off of public toilets. i can sacrifice sleep, food, exercise, and fun all for the illusion of greater meaning and purpose. as much as i complain about it, i'm never happier than when i'm working too hard.
number two is classic, but i feel like i put my own original spin on obsessing over relationships. imaginary are the best. the real ones don't seem to have the same pizzaz and possibility. the best relationships i've had are the ones where someone in the produce isle at the corner store grazes my sleeve and i spend weeks making up stories about it. about the build up, the watching and waiting over ripe bananas. the breakdown into ugly grunts and bruising embraces over the organic grapefruits. and please don't get the wrong idea: physical fantasies don't have shit on the twisted emotional dramas i engage in my head. don't get me started.
so i'm trying to get into a new groove. that is not to say that i will attempt not to obsess, because old habits die hard and this one is in my bones. it's just the way my neurons fire: quick and far in one persistent direction. the truth is i don't dislike it: i thrive on it. and i don't wish to change it. i just wish to indulge in productive delusions. perhaps: art, writing, reading? running?
it's too bad running doesn't tempt like cigarettes and destructive fantasies.
posted by .i'll never tell. at 8:05 PM
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