Love is the Most Important Thing

I don't love you.

Sitting here on the cold tile floor in front of the heat vent; the only saving grace in this old house that leaks like a sieve through the winter, I'm thinking about what that means. The drapes around the window rustle slightly as the icy whisper of mother nature finds its way into the conversation I am having with myself. I'm just pretending the windows are there for a reason, like you are pretending I am.

The space heater is in the bedroom, still blowing at the bed from its usual spot on the wooden floor, in front of the oversize red shag rug that the bed is parked on. I never bothered to pick my clothes up after you left. I just went for my robe; a gift from someone else, and the coffeepot. I still stay up at night wondering how these things happen. Who would want to do this in a freezing hundred some year old house within the confinement of a three foot range of heated air? Apparently we would. The only question surrounding this desperation is who I hate more, you or myself?

Its not a mystery anymore. This is not a 'let the chips fall where they may' scenario. There's no way to look at you ever again without fully acknowledging that I am using you for sex. I'm not even that attracted to you, its the thrill of it that does it for me. I'm not going to ever call you just to talk. You haven't met my friends and I don't plan on introducing you. I cross my fingers in my pocket whenever we're out hoping that we won't run into anyone I know.

One time when we were at the movie theatre I saw one of my work buddies buying popcorn and strolled right past him without saying anything. Maybe you saw him too, but seeing as how the two of you were perfect strangers you could have given him your driver's license and he would have never figured out who you were. Maybe you could have even exchanged numbers and started dating, it wouldn't have even bothered me. He already knows everything about you sexually.

In the beginning I met your parents, In the beginning it was for real. Give it a try. Why not. A little companionship will do you good. Then I told you that it wasn't working for me, the way that I had planned to in case what I anticipated would happen happened. But somewhere the line blurred. You called me a few months later and somehow my need for something real overlooked the fact that this was not real and then it became real in a very unreal way. Whats a proper ending to something that never properly began. I still remember sitting around this same kitchen in my boxers that night, a few summers ago wondering that exact question.

The sound of my cellphone vibrating against the floor hurls me back into the reality of the present as I realize my best friend is calling from California. I don't pick up. We haven't talked in forever and there is too much to catch up on to attempt now. The half pot of coffee in the coffee maker beckons dangerously; I'll probably just wind up telling him about you anyway. The confusion is beginning to get to me. And, seeing as how he knows me better than myself sometimes he will probably tell me something that will play on my mind for hours afterward. He has a very cunning and skilled way of doing this without pissing people off.

It doesn't matter. I have to work and you're not worth losing sleep over. Thats kind of what this is all about anyway. Who has time for relationships? You're a big girl. You know the rules. You should be ok. I've admitted the truth to myself and you should be able to do the same. Even if you call again. Even if we do this again, for another couple years. Even if I continue to feel all of these other feelings that I cannot figure out, at least I've figured out that I don't love you.

And love is the most important thing.

Burn in Hell, Lumbhergs of the World.

I caught Office Space on TV this weekend....

TNT or some shit. I don't know.

One of those networks that turns a 90 minute movie into a three hour event, injecting an extra 90 minutes of commercials while editing all the swear words out. You know, not like, a beep, or just an erasing of sound altogether but the way they do it is actually an art-form of lameass politically correct compliance that destroys all of the trademark lines in the movie.

For example, picture Peter dreaming about the trial he will have when he is found out about the Superman 2 virus; the judge is towering over him, ready to stab the air with the gavel and threatening in his menacing judge-voice. I expected to hear, "Peter Gibbons, you will be sentenced to a Federal Pound-Me-In-The-Ass Prison," but this classic line somehow morphed into, "Federal Pound-Me-Into-Ash Prison."

LAME. But I'm not even mad about it, I get it. Kids watch this shit. Good. Let them learn about the evils of corporate dictatorships while they are young so they will be prepared. Show these children the way - Show them that you need not have dreadlocks and hoes to be a gangsta, that even if you're white and you work for a software programming company in Dallas that may as well be fictional, you can still roll like you from Compton or Tha D.... Its the situation, not the scenery.

I so identified with that character growing up. I knew I would wind up where he was, I knew I would have some kind of douche, know-it-all gradiose unholy joke of a boss and I knew I would find a way out of the situation, just like he did. I even got the sexy girlfriend. But it was tough. I worked for a few cows. I had bizarre coworkers. There were days when I was in my internship where it felt just like that scene where the 3 guys go over to Chotchkie's (sp?) to have coffee and sit there in front of that red-checkered tablecloth, in those tiny seats looking miserable and ask the age-old question to eachother, "what if we're still doing this when we're 50." Chris and Justin and I used to do that.....

Glad that shit is over.

222 Means a Six Shot Latte Morning.

Tonight I was impressed by something least expected.

Glass in my eye.

There was blood everywhere. Blood in front of me. Blood behind me. Blood to the side of me. Blood all over my hands. It was a typical days work in the hospital lab - "the dungeon" as I like to refer to it. Its in the basement where there are no windows and crazy smells. There's even the occasional tortured scream. The place sometimes seems like a torture chamber.

"Hey man, you wanna do this one real quick before you go to lunch?" I turned in the swivel chair that was too high for me to face my coworker, who was offering a specimen with a smile and said that I surely would, took the specimen from him and turned back to the microscope and within minutes, resumed hunching over. Lots of things in labs are not built for blundering hairy apes over six feet tall such as myself. The predominant gender in this sect of the workforce is that of the female, and the predominant height is a height well under my own.

Extra large latex gloves can sometimes be a challenge to find, along with extra large labcoats, and extra large face masks. Extra large egos, however, can be found effortlessly. Extra large materials for my extra large hook hands to work with would be nice also but this, in terms of the extra tight budget all laboratories tend to be on this is a completely extra unrealistic fantasy. Labs are good at budgeting. I have a theory that this is because labs are full of frugal women who are good at prioritizing and unlikely to take risks. The nursing workforce, on the other hand, makes me wonder how nurses can receive up to $20000 sign on bonuses when healthcare is allegedly undergoing a huge crisis, but I see I digress as usual.

Flashback to me in an undersized swivel chair hunching over a microscope counting blood cells. This time I'm counting what you call reticulocytes. Retics (for short) are immature red blood cells that have been pushed into blood circulation early as a protective measure against some traumatic event, like a severe loss of blood. This particular procedure usually involves manually counting at least 1000 red blood cells under a microscope and determining the percentage of retics present. Yes, it sucks. Usually two glass slides are prepared with patient blood and 1000 cells are counted on each. Afterwards the counts are compared to maintain accuracy.

So, in switching from the first slide to the second slide, I go to secure the slide onto the stage of the microscope using the little metal clasp most microscope stages come equipped with, and my large fingers lose their grip, letting the small clasp fly back into position against the corner of the glass as the glass chips, and (>FLING<) lodges a tiny piece of glass just behind my lower eyelid. 

And that is the story of how I got glass in my eye. And yes, I did get it out with no trouble.

Terrible Cliches Exist For a Reason

Its hot, and I need to shower, and thats pretty much how I feel on the inside too - in need of cleansing.

I slept 15 hours last night. I had to. I had to get away from my thoughts. The things that we require emotionally as human beings are not always, or dare I venture to say, NEVER what we first anticipate needing. Sometimes they are the exact opposite of what we want. Sometimes the right thing to do is the thing that scares the hell out of you. Sometimes these questions plague you until you cannot do anything but think about them. Sometimes you can't sleep, or eat, or even leave the house. So here I am, leg sticking to the leg of the desk in my bedroom, in my apartment, in Arizona, lost in a world of thought.

What the fuck is it in me that has such twisted requirements and why? Is it really my ego - and does it need these things to compensate for a lack of self confidence?  

Look at the relationships people choose to get themselves into. Everyone knows somebody, at least ONE person, who gets into one bad relationship after another after an even worse one. The whole while this person doesn't seem to realize that instead of addressing the issues they obviously have with themselves, they create more issues. I suppose these people have an insane fear of being alone because they don't know how to face themselves. Sounds terribly cliche, I know, but there's a reason for terrible cliches.

In the meantime I still need to clean my apartment. Its probably not going to happen today.

Like A Herd of Cows

"Thats a great idea. When I started here I wondered how that worked - is there some hierarchy of authority or all we all just like....cattle in a field?"

This was me voicing my opinion about the new scheme they are trying to implement at my job, although I had not yet recognized it as a scheme. Career track. Graduation of authority. Supervisory plan. Bullshit. Whatever you choose to call it.

Actually, I'm all for it to tell the truth, but I am no longer under the impression it will make much difference. The deal is you have the team, then you have the team lead, then the assistant supervisor, and then the supervisor. Its good that they finally added titles to these positions because they had previously existed without being recognized.

The con is, they may not actually involve much of a pay raise. Or at least thats what everyone has been saying. One rather notorious coworker of mine explained it to me.

"Oh its complete bullshit. There isn't goona be any more money. I even asked, I said ' so these positions involve more money' and The Director says, 'I didn't say that,' and so I ask, 'so they're NOT going to involve more money and he says, 'I didn't say that.' Everyone was laughing. Yea - what a joke. You can't fucking fool me I've been doing this shit too long and I have had EVERY one of those positions. It doesn't mean shit."

Management; its all about TRICKS. Maybe we really are just cattle.

Tea and Toast Fueled Thoughts of Breeding and Best in Show

Its dark. 

I move through the seven hundred some square foot apartment I inhabit, back and forth from the kitchen to the bedroom with barely any light, ready to sink my fangs into whatever food is left in the house. Another cup of tea, another slice of toast. Another cup of tea, another slice of toast. Tea and toast tea and toast tea and toast. Most of the time my food supply runs on bare bones like this. The floor must play host to at least 1000 crumbs.

At night the thoughts come. This is why people like myself gravitate towards it - the night. Mysterious and powerful qualities have been attributed to the fall of the sun by probably every culture throughout all of history. Something about brain waves slowing down causes neurotic minds like mine to move in a more comfortable rhythm.

I can still hear the laughter of a coworker telling the story of a twelve year old grandson who asked a girl in his class out.

"It was so cute! He said, 'Nana....I asked a girl out.' Really quick. and I said, 'Oh. Where are you going with her?' And he kind of looked at me strangely and so I said, 'Oh! You mean like, to be your girlfriend?' And then he said, 'yea.' So I asked, 'What made you decide to do that?'

The answer was I don't know. Is this a raging example of social programming, or is it just me? Cute story though.

It happens all the time. I'm at work minding my own business, and all of a sudden somebody drags their kid in. There the kid is, bouncing and gurgling, face full of food and hair full of tangle, and I feel bad for a second, because I really don't fucking care. Maybe I'm just that far gone. Either way its good for a laugh. I usually lean over to my gay coworker and whisper, "So whose goona win best in show this year?" 

And we laugh and laugh and laugh.....