Saturday, January 28, 2006

Several Arguments With Myself

Today is Saturday and I'm arguing with myself. I have been really bad lately and so I have a lot to yell at myself about. For one thing, the house needs to be cleaned again, and I'm reluctant to get started. "You are a lazy slob," I tell myself. "Stop playing computer games and get some semblance of a life, and clean the house, it's disgusting." "So?" I reply sullenly, "It's my fucking house and it can be trashed if I want it to be. Let it reflect my inner angst and sorrow!" (I can be annoyingly melodramatic sometimes.) "No," I say reasonably. "You have to clean it up because otherwise it will depress you. And you need to go for a walk; it's a beautiful day. And work on job stuff." "Fuck you!" I say with all the fervor of my inner 15 year old, and then I sigh resignedly at myself.

However, I need to do these things, and I definitely need to figure out what I'm going to do for the rest of my life. I'm going to start by cleaning my messy bedroom and getting rid of a bunch of sweaters and shoes. Panic grips me at the thought of parting with any of my shoes, though. "I can't get rid of these, they're Steve Maddens and I love them! Also, I got them on sale and they were so, so cheap." "But you never wear them. In fact, you've never worn them because they have five inch heels and you can't even walk in them. If you could walk you'd be 6'3" in them anyway." "But they make my legs look fantastic and what if I suddenly start dating someone who's 6'7"? I'll need them then."

I'm trying to figure out what I want to do for the rest of my life careerwise, too. I'm not one of those people who decided at the age of 4 that they wanted to be an insurance executive; I'm one of those people who decided at about age 23 while drinking heavily that she wanted to be, like, an artist, and you can see how well that's worked out. So now that I'm middleaged I need to be all responsible and adult like and possibly go buy a copy of What Color is Your Parachute (black. Mine is unrelieved black, except for the flames.) and decide, you know, what I find joy in so that I can have a happy and rewarding career instead of just lurching around from one thing to another. Actually my career really resembles the other meaning of that word, or, well, according to I'm thinking about careen & not career, but still: To lurch or swerve while in motion. Yes. What do I find joy in and what am I good at? Mostly Bookworm, lately, and somehow I don't think there's much of a call for someone to find words in racks of wooden letters, although, hey, if you have an opening, I consistently achieve the rank of Grand Archivist and would welcome the opportunity to talk further with you about my qualifications and abilities. It's too bad I don't find joy in creating Excel spreadsheets, but alas, I just don't. I kind of want to be a graphic designer, but I'd have to go back to school, which is unlikely, and then, after graduation, I would just be joining my many many graphic designer friends, almost all of whom are out of work and drinking wine desolately on their porches while discussing the possibility of jobs creating Excel spreadsheets. So I don't know. I think that since when I was linking to Bookworm just then I inadvertently opened it up I'll just . . just . . be right back . . .

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