I should stop pursuing her. I know I expect more from her than she can deliver. But it seems so much like she's the imprimatur of a good, rewarding, happy summer. She's the essence of romance and accomplishment—a love not born of loneliness and fear.

Turn On The Happy Feeling

June comes every year and he/she/it always makes me feel this way. Odds are I have a good forty opportunities still to seize her if I shirk recklessness and smoking and never concede that a job where I might as well be a robot is the extent of my calling, or that my consciousness can be a string of numbers—of platelet counts and blood-packs—for an interminable life. I've noticed lately that I've become a little clumsy with the needle; in fact, I have barely the bloodletting skills of Marian, the lumbering woman with the pathetic, heaving sigh, who is available for work any time because she has no life, no friends, and, according to Jason, is perhaps "a bit slow." But, given a week of real dedication, I think I could be an excellent plasmaman again; one who speaks perfect, unaccented, articulate English and whose deployment and delivery is so transparent that he barely exists to any of the pathetic people who frequent him.

My So-Called Life is Hard

But wait. I shouldn't use my job as a means of deferring greater pursuits. Resignation is for losers! I have a few desperate little Post-It notes—about the airplane, mind you—that I wrote during work so I wouldn't forget what I was thinking, as it seems I always do. (It's sad I attach so little importance to the most important things in my life. Either that or I have an inexcusably poor memory.)

It seems that for so many people "real jobs" like the one I have are reliable sources of a grating, militant self-righteousness. The argument seems to be that whenever someone occupies himself in a way that vaguely aligns with immediate human needs, people ought to be uncritically grateful for their presence, and that ought to be the end of any considerations. "What," they ask, "would your clients do if they couldn't give you their plasma? Sell drugs, probably!" I've got news for those naifs: they do both now!

Well, I think I've determined that it simply isn't an option to slip into the comfortable martyrdom of the workplace. But that means calling an end to all this self-dissimulation, God. God, you haven't helped me. I've read the dialogues—you've given just the wrong advice!

Oh, Mickey. You're such a rapist.

Comments

Hey! Written by Guest on 2004-06-22 22:11:57 I give very good advice, mind you.    God

Written by Guest on 2004-06-22 23:52:04 God, are you insecure?

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