My World Is Nothing But Mundane. I Work. I Worry About Screwing Up At Work. Sometimes I Study For An

Monday, Fuckin’ Monday

If my chest ever caves in and I find myself standing before the wrong God, it’s probably gonna be on a Monday. 

Monday is for bad shit. It shouldn’t really be that way, should it? Nah, it shouldn’t but it is. It should be for staying in bed, if you want to. It shouldn’t be for dread. It shouldn’t be about living to suffer. It should be about watching dogs be all happy with their heads sticking out the window in the passenger seat of a car. It should be about petting strange cats. It should be about taking some time to cry if you need to.

See, that’s why I think we need to quit this capitalism shit. It’s way overrated and it’s profoundly evil. I suspect most everybody who has ever worked knows in their heart how fucked up it is. They know it ain’t right. They know the game is rigged but they keep playin’ the game because they don’t know anything else. They can’t imagine anything else. I don’t even know if I can imagine anything else. The word faith just popped into my head. Faith. What the fuck is faith for me? Belief that something better is possible. I’m not talking about the idea that some day I’ll be brave, sexy and rich. No. A better world. 

I woke up this morning mildly stoned. I always tell myself that I will not get so fucking stoned on a Sunday night but I never listen to myself. I could be wrong but I think it’s quite possibly a bad idea to be even a little high at work. Who wants to be stoned in an office building? Let me tell you, it’s not fun to come into the office at 7 AM and get told that everything is on fire and you are the one that’s going to put it out. I’ve had that happen and lived to tell about it. Oh god damn it. Not this. I don’t need this. Beads of sweat on the back of my neck. Fuck. Why did I come to work today? Cuz I’m tryin’ to be an adult. I haven’t missed a day. People think I’m reliable. People think I’m personable. People think I know my shit and I kinda need all that because on paper I’ve been a bum for like 5 years and I’m trying to quit that. Okay. Let’s do this. You got this, brotha. You got this. 

Yeah. Nothing happened today. Nothing that made me sweat. I spent a lot of time looking busy and some time actually working and I just ran out the clock and now I’m here typing this. 

Guess most everybody who is everybody hates Mondays. That might be true but I don’t find a lot of solace being a member of that club. Typically, I just want to get the fuck home and sleep it off. It was alright though. Maybe tomorrow the devil will decide to fuck me up. God, I hope not. 

I’m one neurotic son of a bitch. It’s not good. I should probably be talking to someone. 

I guess I could be more well adjusted. I never want to be too adjusted though.

It’s a queer thing. What’s a queer thing? Glad you asked. I live in mortal terror of some stressed out motherfucker who can afford to play golf coming to my desk to yell at me but see, there is all this crazy shit going on in the background. 

The President is talking crazy and sinister. You know it ain’t normal. You know you can sense evil. You know the substance of that shit. You tell people you got a bad feeling. People tell you not to worry. 

People are being put in cages but it’s people without power. It’s people who don’t speak English. Bad shit happens in these cages but see, it’s people that society is comfortable un-personing. It’s them today but who the fuck is it gonna be tomorrow?.

You know you’ve seen this guy before. He’s some kinda archetype. He’s a manifestation of the worst parts of all of us. Sometimes you find yourself yelling till you’re hoarse but you get told to calm the fuck down. 

Truth be told, I got no clue what to do. I know there is so much going on outside of myself. I’ve podcasted my rage and my concern. I’m a dues paying member of the local chapter of Democratic Socialists of America and hell, I may even have to start turning up at meetings. I have an ACLU membership card in my wallet. I’ve donated money to striking teachers. I know all of that is so very, very little. 

As I type this, the song Holding out for a Hero by Bonnie Tyler is playing on a loop. The words seem sinister to me in the place where my head is at. The idea of a hero riding upon a fiery steed seems fashy as fuck. 

There were some twists and turns here, right? 

I’m really tempted right now to just write the words “Monday fuckin’ Monday” and be done with this. Yes, that would be really lazy. 

Monday, fuckin’ Monday. 

Thursday

I sit down at my desk, open a Word document and start typing away. Nothing like inspiration has hit me. No burning bush. No getting struck blind with the truth while hearing the voice of God. The office is quiet. I’ve said my good morning to the office manager as is always my custom. She’s a sweet lady.

It occurs to me that what I’m doing here is writing just to get something down. It really doesn’t matter if it’s complete garbage or not. Just do it. Nike that shit.

I sip from my second cup of coffee today. I have one cup of coffee at home, another when I get to work and some decaf in the afternoon while I’m just coasting through the second half of the day (hopefully).

I’ve worn a collared shirt and khakis every single day that I’ve been employed here. I could probably get away with dressing a bit more relaxed but I don’t. Even though I’ve developed quite the disdain and skepticism for authority, I still tend to follow rules. I try to look as respectable as I can even though the idea that someone is respectable due to wearing a collared shirt is almost unspeakably stupid. Maybe I manage to completely undermine my air of respectability by wearing my collared shirts untucked though. I mean, I used to tuck them in but they kept coming untucked so I just wear them untucked.

I’ve been in this habit recently where I sit down at my desk at work and begin writing. I do it “now” instead of waiting until I get home because mostly I fear that I’m not going to have much in the way of motivation when I get home. What I’m aware of when I’m sitting in the office writing is that when I’m doing that, I’ve got the vibe of the office going on. I believe when I’m engaging in this exercise in the office, my mindset is that of the office. There is reservation in my words. I keep myself from going to certain places inside myself because of where I am. Things be calm at the moment, ya dig? Any moment though, that serenity gonna get murdered by a member of the professional managerial class. I’m always thinking about getting interrupted.

Don’t ask me what’s with that 1950s hipster language or whatever that is. I couldn’t tell you.

Humidity makes me think of madness. Makes me think of the heart of darkness within you. C’mon. Show it to me. I’m sure it ain’t so bad. Tie headband like 80s action hero and nod to you. I got you. Hold my hand if it’s the end. Hold it tight. Tight. Like you mean it.  Do you mean it? I do. I think I do. 

Shit. Tryin’ to remember what that was like. Trying to mean something that scared you. That traumatized you. That weighed you down like a motherfuckin’ Anvil that got put there by Bugs Bunny when he had the devil in him. What’s something like that? Love, baby. Love. Right? Love that’s a WMD. Love that leads to accidents. Love that leads to words arranged in a certain way that come to priests at night when they think maybe the cloth wasn’t such a good idea. Trying to mean the words you pluck out of the air just for a quiet nod and an “I feel you.” It’s hard to mean things. 

Hard to find what the fuck you mean. Like really mean, man. You with me? Think 10 things. Count ‘em. Do you take them into a dark room with you? Are they any good there? Do you really want them there with you? Do you cringe 15 years after telling someone that one time you felt the spirit really strongly or some shit?  

Due to a mix-up that is too stupid to explain, my appointment never happened. 

Me. Haven't posted regularly in years but this is me.

Hey.

The blank space and the blinky-blinky. 

Fan blowing and gettin’ down to the slow beat only they can hear. Move its head to the right. Move its head to the left. Do oscillating fans get together and have raves? 

I’m a straight man. Sometimes I don’t even know what turns me on anymore. I mean, I do but not really. 

I have an appointment with a therapist on Tuesday. This time I’ll go to the right address. I don’t really know what to say to him. 

So, what brings you in? 

Scream my lungs out. 

Or punch the wall. 

Or throw something. 

What it is

All of this arises from a sense of loneliness. That’s what drives this. There are layers to it. 

Not a ridiculous number of layers though. I’m a simple guy. 

I’m not close with too many people and by many, I mean, like any. That’s not to say that I don’t have my moments. Those moments kinda scare me though so sometimes I need to take a few years to breathe and by breathe I mean, mess up my life and sink into a pit of self-loathing. 

I’m questioning the wisdom of doing this but not really. Fuck that. You gotta take risks sometimes. 

This is an unremarkable’s man’s inner monologue on a Friday night. 

I was about to declare this art but god damn it, that would be cringe-y as fuck. It is art though. It just will never be studied because it’s not that good. It has its moments though. This is all about those moments. 

One day 

I can awaken from the dream

and I’ll be a YouTube star. 

My idiosyncrasies will be viral 

and my soul will be trademarked. 

Maybe I can buy myself a seat 

on The Muskrat’s space boat to Mars 

and I can suffocate 

with the richest 

and the sexiest 

while the people left behind watch 

while the minds that coded all the killer apps 

die well-dressed. 

Maybe I’ll upload 

in some time, some place 

that’s warm 

and that ain’t so cruel 

and that’s broken in some way 

that’s easier to fix. 

Maybe one day 

I can awaken from the dream 

as a man 

who sorta knows what to do 

sorta knows the truth 

sorta knows how to love. 

It’s so cheesy 

cheesy like the orange fingers 

on a dateless wonder

but if I call you brother 

I mean it 

desperately 

like a cardboard sign SOS 

spotted on a freeway off-ramp.

In the night 

when the breeze is gentle 

can I tell ya how terribly strange 

this all is to me? 

can I tell ya how scared I was 

trippin’ on shrooms and that it was your 

voice that brought me back? 

Will ya come to me in the midnight hour 

with the knots you can’t untie? Will ya? 

This is not any sort of earth-shaking revelation but it was apparent to me today that I am capable of expressing myself very lucidly if I try just a little. It’s important for me to not try too hard. Trying too hard will fuck things up. You gotta dance with it a little. You make it smooth. You steer it gently and you make it do what it does. That’s how expression works for me. 

I got into a discussion with the parents about the way the world works, about U.S. foreign policy, about a better world. It wasn’t very long before I got fucking pissed off about their attitude. I’m not going to give you a blow-by-blow breakdown of this discussion but the gist of what I kept hearing from them was people can and have tried running the world a different way but those different ways have always failed. The way things get run in this country is not perfect but it’s a hell of a lot worse in every other place on earth you care to name. 

Is that what getting older does to us? We just shrug our shoulders and say, “Well, things will never be perfect but we have it a lot better than those brown people over there who don’t speak English and who get followed around by flies.” 

I am not at all convinced that this is a generational phenomenon. 

This is totally a propaganda thing. We don’t get educated about the way power works. Maybe we go to college and we get a professor who assigns some Zinn or Chomsky and then we forget all that when we go to work to make some asshole a bunch of money. I think maybe something like that is what happens.