I have a fairly easy job. I work a register, and cut up samples, I dip things in chocolate. Sure I have to cook, but my main tools are a microwave and a spatula. In fact, if it requires anything more than I microwave to cook it, I don't do it. I don't have the training. I swear to God.
Doesn't mean I can't screw it up.
Today, instead of putting one pound of brown sugar and 4 teaspoons of cinnamon in the apple pie mix (if you don't know what that is, don't worry, it's fairly irrelevant), I put in half a pound of brown sugar. Then I proceeded to make 3 apples with it. Needless to say, CINNAMON FUCKING OVERLAOD. I then felt guilty and stupid for the rest of my shift.
This is just another in a series of issues with my mundane, mind-numbingly boring life. I do a job that doesn't require much more than arms and fingers, and yet I still get upset when I make a simple dumb mistake. You know how I made the mistake? I was distracted thinking about ways I can make my life more interesting. No joke. Because my life, while good, is dull.
This could go somewhere, but it won't. And don't get me wrong, I love my job. I get paid to play with chocolate, and occasionally I get to take home an apple that's deemed "unsellable" for free and eat it and laugh at people who had to pay $5.5o for the same apple. But I'm afraid that this is going to be my life forever. I fear that every job I ever have will eventually lead to this same sentiment: that I'm not doing anything that matters. If I disappeared, my job would be instantly filled. The fear that my presence on Earth wouldn't be missed by anyone but my friends and family is somewhat frightening. I want to do something that not everyone can do. Someday, somehow I'll get there.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
I Find It Kind of Funny, I Find It Kind of Sad
Well, it's been over a year since I've blogged, but I feel compelled to pick it up again for...reasons. Not concrete reasons, but reasons. That's for sure. I guess it will all come together as I continue to write this.
Nearing the beginning of my fourth and final year as a college student, I begin to feel that all-too-common feeling of dread. I have a frightening sensation of not knowing who I am, where I'm going, why I'm doing what I'm doing, and how the hell I'm going to get to a place that I want to be (or, really, what that place even is). I've realized that in twenty years of life there have been very few times/moments/instances that I have felt like I was truly, completely happy. That sounds worse than it is, because while I don't feel like I've spent a lot of time being elated, for the most part I've been satisfied, and maybe even mildly joyful, but I don't spend the majority of my time being leap-out-of-my-shoes, goofy-grin-on-my-face thrilled with life. I know that's fairly common, but I also know that with the life I have and the things I've done I could definitely have been...happier. More satisfied. Less melancholy.
I've realized that, as an English major, I spend the majority of my time with my nose in a book or my face in front of a computer. I type a lot and I read a lot, and along with that comes a feeling that I spend a lot of time in other people's worlds. I don't live in my own world, I live in Palahniuk's world, or Murakami's world, or Foer's world. I live in whatever world I read about at the time. And while many of those worlds have been wonderful and fascinating, none of them are mine.
Most people would respond to this by saying, "well, be a novelist. Write your own worlds." Here's the thing. I am a terrible creative writer. It comes from reading so much. Anything I write is a rip-off of something written better than what I'm writing. And really, I'm okay with that. I never had aspirations of being a fabulously famous novelist or poet. Honestly, I suck. I've tried to write plays and books, and I just don't do well. They're clunky and awkward, and they are painfully shallow, but that's just fine. I don't something other than my love of rum and cokes driving me to alcoholism anyway.
I've digressed a little, but here's my point: I have no fucking idea how to fix this problem. All the things I've wanted to be have fallen apart, and I haven't managed to pick up the pieces and find something new yet. But I feel like in the process of picking up the pieces I need to do something...big. Different. Out of character. I don't know what it is yet, but I'm looking. And I'm ready for it when it comes and knocks on my door...or maybe when I knock on its door. Who knows.
But, for now, there should be more blogs to look forward to. I'm going to try. It's the best I can do right now.
Nearing the beginning of my fourth and final year as a college student, I begin to feel that all-too-common feeling of dread. I have a frightening sensation of not knowing who I am, where I'm going, why I'm doing what I'm doing, and how the hell I'm going to get to a place that I want to be (or, really, what that place even is). I've realized that in twenty years of life there have been very few times/moments/instances that I have felt like I was truly, completely happy. That sounds worse than it is, because while I don't feel like I've spent a lot of time being elated, for the most part I've been satisfied, and maybe even mildly joyful, but I don't spend the majority of my time being leap-out-of-my-shoes, goofy-grin-on-my-face thrilled with life. I know that's fairly common, but I also know that with the life I have and the things I've done I could definitely have been...happier. More satisfied. Less melancholy.
I've realized that, as an English major, I spend the majority of my time with my nose in a book or my face in front of a computer. I type a lot and I read a lot, and along with that comes a feeling that I spend a lot of time in other people's worlds. I don't live in my own world, I live in Palahniuk's world, or Murakami's world, or Foer's world. I live in whatever world I read about at the time. And while many of those worlds have been wonderful and fascinating, none of them are mine.
Most people would respond to this by saying, "well, be a novelist. Write your own worlds." Here's the thing. I am a terrible creative writer. It comes from reading so much. Anything I write is a rip-off of something written better than what I'm writing. And really, I'm okay with that. I never had aspirations of being a fabulously famous novelist or poet. Honestly, I suck. I've tried to write plays and books, and I just don't do well. They're clunky and awkward, and they are painfully shallow, but that's just fine. I don't something other than my love of rum and cokes driving me to alcoholism anyway.
I've digressed a little, but here's my point: I have no fucking idea how to fix this problem. All the things I've wanted to be have fallen apart, and I haven't managed to pick up the pieces and find something new yet. But I feel like in the process of picking up the pieces I need to do something...big. Different. Out of character. I don't know what it is yet, but I'm looking. And I'm ready for it when it comes and knocks on my door...or maybe when I knock on its door. Who knows.
But, for now, there should be more blogs to look forward to. I'm going to try. It's the best I can do right now.
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