My Life as Defined by "The Man"

Wow, never thought I'd get to use that phrase...ever.

So after years of snickering and great mockage of locals who ever thought a ruling body incapable of keeping its own scarred, mangled corpse out of harm's way could/would take the time to smack anyone else down/keep anyone else out, my drive-time epiphany was quite the shocker.

For years I've struggled in vain to find some metaphor for my existence (everyone should have one; I highly recommend them for those days when you just don't know why you want to beat nuns with sacks of penguins while humming the theme song to Dobie Gillis) but aside from the occasional "Life Sucks Monkeys" I've come up short time and time again.

Then on my student-free commute (who'da thunk all those idiots driving like jackasses were the future leaders of our nation?) on a dreary, time-skewed Monday it hit me:

Daylight Savings Time is the metaphor for my life. The perfect illustration of the monotonous cycle of Me.

Always a whiz at the Falling Back.

Completely inept at the Springing Forward.

Well maybe not completely, but it certainly wouldn’t count as a Spring. I can Stumble and I can certainly Flail, but ‘to spring’ is a verb gone AWOL.

The Tail of the Tech-Monkey and the Existential Conundrum

Or
To Flee or not to Flee…

This may or may not be the most opportune time to post something like this, but the last few days have really got me pondering. And to Ponder is to Mull, and to Mull is to ruin a perfectly good dose of Joyful-Expectation that’s been a long time comin’.

How much can one thing own another?

I’m not talking about relationships based on esoteric stuff like warm and fuzzy feelings or various planes of disdain. In a professional capacity that does not involve the selling of one’s immediate future to a governing entity, how much of one’s existence can be detained by another? And how can wanting to better oneself be such a taboo?

I have an opportunity to not only move slightly up and over from the position I tentatively hold now, but to do something that the possibility of accomplishing on this current path has a measly shelf life of 2 or 3 years tops – return to school to get a real degree in something I actually love doing. I know myself and my life well enough to be realistic; if I wait much longer, I won’t.

My new job is going to be beyond this everyday tech-biscuit business, but I’m looking forward to it; and the ability to expect the best used to be something that this life had all but broken in me. If I don’t keep learning and growing, I get Bored and when I get bored I get Complacent and Complacency leads to Swelled Head which causes me to tilt off center which makes children stare and point and… It just leads to no good, I tell you, no good a’tall.

So I opted for the one that will give me the things I require more than money. Don’t get me wrong, money is right there on the list beneath “Happiness” and “Cranial Stimulation,” but it’s not the end-all-be-all of my contentment. It’s a nice perk that I hope gets even perkier as time goes on.

Back to the original question –

I can understand the other side’s point of view; it makes sense to think that effort and privilege bestowed on another should be rewarded with respect and loyalty. But at what point does Loyalty become Obligation? And when Opportunity to excel is denied, doesn’t Obligation bleed out into Resentment? I would like to think I’m bigger than that, better than the baser human state of selfish resentment and mounting odium, but I can’t say for sure that if I’d stayed, if I’d turned down an opportunity the likes of which would either never be offered again or I would be too smug/afraid/bitter to consider accepting in the future, that self-destructive little germ would not have started burrowing its way into the darkest parts of me, festering and scheming.

So, how much of me is beholden and for how bloody long?

A Surgeon Unsexed my Kitty!

And they hate me. Well, Pi does anyway. Phi has no idea that there's anything missing and is bouncing off the furniture. Pi on the other hand is a tiny mass of hate at times and a bundle of pain at others. Why does it work like this? Even in humans it's "Snip Snip Buh-Bye" for men and "I'll trade you a uterus for a wollop of pain" for women.

Fuzziness Incarnate has some new additions, and before anyone asks how come it’s 99% pics of them sleeping, you try keeping 5 month old kittens still long enough to take a portrait with a camera-phone.

Reality-Slapped, Crisis Averted

It seems that, according to some reasonable-mined individuals (ha!) who believe that there is always a perfectly logical reason for everything (doubly ha!), my ears are in fact not shifting/ roaming/ planning a sight-seeing tour of my nether regions after all. Because in the black and white, rather plain world that is the sensible land of the upright/ uptight/ no-funsees, ears and other external humanly parts do not ramble away in fits of ennui. It seems in this sane, sensible plane of the clear-cut and the wary, glasses, however, do require adjusting. Despite their best efforts to make me see (through lenses requiring tweaking, no less) existence in a straightforward, tidy manner that revels in the idea of a world that twirls off-kilter in an exceptionally boring way, and after reflecting short and squishy on the realism of one versus the mirthful morbidity of the other, I’ll take my twisted noggin’s notion any day of the week. Except for every other Tuesday after a Monday that does not end in suck, at least, as those are my “Make like the World is Shiny” day.

They Call Me...Shifty Ears

Yep, that's right. Me ears be shifty. Okay, shifting. It seems they've tired of their usual placement on the sides of my head and have decided to take a tour of my scalp. So far they've only ventured a bit left, but what if they get more adventurous, if the urge to see the sights that is my cranial region grows to a fever pitch and I awake to find I can hear myself blinking? What if a jaunt around the block no longer thrills and they opt to winter down south?!? The vision of my future freakish self kindly asking a cold-handed specialist not to shout is almost enough to make me run off and fashion some duct-tape earmuffs. I wonder what other parts and appendages are planning off-season vacays in the wonderful on-me-doors. Shall I awake to find ankle-biter has taken on a whole other, much more fun-at-parties meaning?

Whatever Happened to Baby J?

DISCLAIMER: As I could not be bothered to look up the actual details of this story or verify its validity because all of my strength and will had been previously wasted on a last minute, 10 pm trip to Wal-Mart, do not take the following as anything more than jaded cynicism in a crunchy coating of sarcastic humor (much like all the other things that spew forth from this swirly of disaster I call Brain):

A woman somewhere (could have been Here, could have been There, maybe even 13 miles outside of Elsewhere down Interstate WhoGivesaCrap) awoke or just finally wandered out into the light of day to find her front lawn strewn with up to 10's of small, rosy-cheeked plastic babies. Astounded by the notion of a possible (though improbable) Christmas miracle of raining Baby Jesi, she ran about in cartoonish circles the late, great Barbera would have wept at the sight of before calling her local priest and confessing the sin of hosing off the sons of god.

Apparently some pious devotees devoid of reason and the knowledge of the social ramifications of stealing the plastic offspring of others was incensed at the idea of Baby J making an appearance before his mythical anointed arrival date.

The found Jesi were rounded up by local parishioners with the help of snickering law enforcement, checked for signs of abuse or neglect, questioned as to whether they’d ever been touched inappropriately by an angel and returned to their grieving owners who more than likely plopped them back in their little mangers and scurried back into the throng of the pushing, shoving, anti-peace-on-earth-good-will-to-[people] (must keep up with the PC-ie-ness after all) hordes of mall-goers and last minute shoppers elbowing one another in the names of Christ and Good Savings.

So if Baby Jesi aren’t supposed to be left to freeze in badly lit, apparently dog-approved nativity scenes until Christmas, I suggest we follow this rule of dumb to guarantee that crimes of this inconsequence do not persist. I even recommend we go all out to ensure serial doll-snatching is left to the professionals, the little brothers and school yard bullies who have made such an art of it.

I think I’ll start with a very pregnant Mary complete with stretch marks, hemorrhoids and turkey-timer bellybutton. Maybe I’ll even throw in a skeptical Joseph and a disillusioned goat. According to the story there were others there as well, regular people looking for a warm place to stay. How ‘bout a hobo, a wino (there's a distinction) and a shady lady with her veil askew? If we’re going to be sticking to anachronistic history I’ll have the magi show up about a week late with stale frankincense, leftover myrrh and colicky camels, and a week after that I’ll introduce Herod and the souls of hundreds of murdered children…

And after I wake up from my pious-pummeling-induced coma, I’ll start planning a 1:10 scale reenactment of the beautiful, heart-wrenching story of how an industrious wittle rabbit called forth the armies of hell and regained control over Easter.

Loophole Revisited

Phase 1 Complete: Target 1 Eliminated.

Phase 2 Beginning...

Target 2 Locked...

Commence Demolition in 5...

4...

3...

2..............