Blogging is usually useless
I don’t know how often I’m going to blog. I don’t really like the idea, it seems sort of inherently narcissistic, ‘here are my thoughts, don’t you think they’re poignant?’ Sort of like people aspiring to be celebrities and feel that people should know their name – who the fuck are you, and why should people care about anything that you do?
But I’m also home alone at this point in my life, and really bored and lonely, and have time to write about stuff. Then again the usual reason for blogging is because you are doing something interesting and people should know, like people who go on trips or get a job far away then blog about what they’re up to so people can keep up. In theory, not only am I eminently available right now, but I’m not even doing anything that’s worth talking about. Literally, here is a transcript of my day:
7am: Wake up. Look at alarm clock. Am I Tired? No. But I feel like it’s too early. Stay under covers, it’s safe there, and you have teddy bears (no seriously I sleep with eight teddy bears of various shapes and sizes, many of whom I’ve had for over a decade).
8am: Get up. Go downstairs. Eat English muffin with peanut butter. Drink chocolate milk. You’re doing fucking great The Leach, keep this shit up.
8am-12pm: Mixture of minesweeper, sending out emails to people about job leads, and read the news. Still doing great, but doubts are starting to creep in, because nothing has happened. No one has tried to call me, maybe one person emailed me. Got a few likes on a Facebook status, so I guess people are trying to interact with me, but not really. Don’t people want to talk to me? Aren’t I interesting?
12:30: Make lunch panini. There you fucking go The Leach! D&W Black forest ham, bacon lovers turkey, cave aged gruyere, tennessee river bbq sauce on a roll? I could eat that all day, in fact I had them for lunch and dinner yesterday. There’s the way to perk yourself up. Back to doing awesome.
2:00pm: get ready to go to JV assistant coach job. Put left contact in and OH FUCKING HORROR the contact solution I thought was solution last night was actually some sort of horribly mislabeled acid, and my left eye is now on fucking fire. RIP contact lens out of eye. Douse eye in water. Swear at myself. Holy shit that hurt. Go downstairs, check pingree schedule, see that team isn’t even playing today: 1. no one told me. 2. I just endured an exquisite amount of pain trying to prepare for something that isn’t even going to happen. I don’t deserve to live
2:30: Set up meetings in NYC next thursday at a staffing agency and with some connection. Back to doing ok. Eye still hurts. Jury is still out on whether I deserve to live.
2:50: bored, set up blog press. Write this post.
That is my day. I might go outside later, but I don’t know if I’m feeling up to facing the world right now.
So why am I doing this? Because I’m alone and bored and need something to fill up the time. Because I like writing, and this is one of the few things that I can genuinely allow myself to do anymore. I can’t have fun without feeling guilty about not having a job, which is fucking obnoxious because this is, in theory, the time when I can do what I want. Once I get employed I’m going to have a job for probably a while, and that’s going to make me even more miserable, though I’ll have enough money to buy the requisite materials (Johnny Walker) to make me forget how much my life sucks. Shit that’s depressing.