"A lot of the stuff I say is not necessarily the thing that’s on my mind. I’m just trying to unlock it. Maybe unlock the emptiness and allow it to be filled."
THERE'S NO SPONSOR this week. Is it funny that I’ve been using alcoholic beverages as my ‘sponsor’? Probably not. I’m just wondering whether it’s ironic that alcoholics often use sponsors to keep themselves out of jams. I use these particular ‘sponsors’ to get me into them. But, I’m also very skeptical of what my sponsors represent. At least in the long run. Dependency is what I’m talking about. Being dependent on a sponsor to be able to do the work you want to do. For example, if you were running a show and needed to sell ad space to keep the thing operational. If you’d depend on those sponsors to just be able to make the show. Those type of sponsors keep things going. An alcoholic depends on that sponsor to keep them sober. So my show occasionally has it’s sponsor. I don't know if I'm dependent on it, but I do feel more at ease when it's there.
THIS IS GOING to be a good time. Honestly, last year was not one of my best. It was okay, but I’m expecting a lot better this year. Last year I was kind of sick a lot. More than usual. And I ended the year surrounded by sickness. Oh, it was terrible. I got the flu shot and I was down for a month. I got better and my wife got sick. I spent New Years with Karsh McCabe, the Uninhabited Mind. Only his whole mind and body was infected with the bug. After all that, I got sick again. So, I’m looking forward to getting going with this new funkin’ year. Actually, I can’t wait. I cannot wait for what goes down this year.
What if that were true? What if anyone saying ‘I can’t wait’ really couldn’t wait? I will surely tackle that topic a little later. But, right now, I’m really happy. I’m happy to be working on something new. I’m happy to be starting on a new year’s worth of trials, tributaries, tribunals, trips around this great old world. Happy. Like...Like...like that uh...that Pharrell jam. You know what I’m talking about? That one where he and all the people that there are dance around like a bitch? Word.
WOAH, this part! What the hell’s going on?
(center right) I don’t know whether to talk about me, or tell a story about someone like me. I don’t know what people want to hear. Ooh. What if they don’t care to hear either?
(to self - left) What can you make them hear? What?
(center right) Just trying to figure this out make my hands hurt. That’s weak. (voice over) I think about getting a device that records my thoughts so I don’t have to type them. If I type them, I don’t have to think about them. If I say them, I have to hear them. That can hurt. But still. . .this device. If I could get my hands on one of those.
(to self - left) It’d be the end.
I WANNA DO this for hours. Just sit here and think. Listen to some music I just made. Know that I was able to do it. And I don’t mean playing. I can play, and I’m trying something kinda weird at the same time. Not completely unique - trust me I know - but still weird. I want to play. I just realized I want to hear it too. I rarely ever did that. The experience playing is so thrilling that I’m only experiencing that. I barely get time to think while I’m doing it so hearing it too. . .that’s next to impossible.
Then, I thought “What if I record it?” So I’d think, “That sounds like a pretty good idea. I play it. I seem to like it. Being able to listen back to it doesn’t sound like an all too terrible idea.” But, then the realization kicks it. It comes in the form of a question. “What if it actually sounds bad?”
“What d’you mean. You just thought it was a pretty good idea?”
(right) “It is a good idea.”
“It sounds like one. . .but it isn’t. When you’re playin’, you’re likin’ it. You’re havin’ a good time. When you sit back and you listen to some crummy recording of it. . .you’re liable to give it up completely.”
(center left) “No way.”
“Oh, yeah. And you’ll feel bad about it. You’ll hate yourself for it. When it’s all said and done, you won’t forgive yourself for it. And you know what you’ll do?
NOTHING FELT better than leaving work that day. It was the last day that I would be there. The last time I’d punch in or punch out. The last time I’d put on that fake fuckin’ smile for the customers or the other employees. And don’t get me wrong. I don’t detest the work I did, I don’t detest the people, I don’t detest the fake fuckin’ smile. I got paid pretty well for all of that mess. The point is: It was the last time.
I left on my own accord. I wanted to do something different. But what was the other point? Oh yeah. Nothing felt better. If I didn’t detest being there; I would go so far as to say I liked working there. I liked the people too, however all of that which I could feel by being there couldn’t match the feeling of leaving that place. It’s real simple too. There was no respect. I could have stayed and it would have eventually turned into a Rodney Dangerfield punchline one-liner with no audience to laugh. I put in fourteen real years of my life and there was no goodbye. No thanks for your service. I was in management on three top teams for the corporation in six years. I took 15 sick days in 14 years. I managed three stores and worked in 10 in three different states. I didn’t expect anything on that last day. I didn’t think there’d be a party or a cake or a card, but when there was nothing and I was walking out still wanting to work, still appreciating what I could do there, I realized this means nothing to nobody. That’s why I left the leadership a year ago. I cared too fuckin’ much. All my peers, especially those above me couldn’t give a dick’s balls about anyone. Probably way down deep they didn’t even care about themselves, just the illusion of what they wanted to be. And you know, that was starting to be me too. Because I always just want to fit in and be appreciated.
There it was though, my last day, fourteen years. The last two people I worked with were the last two to care. It was fitting. It worked and nothing felt better than that.