Sad, Just Plain Sad

I know I complain a lot about how boring and brain-shrinkingly awful my job is, but I think this is a new level of sadness.

The window nearest to my cube (but not visible from my desk) looks out onto the back driveway of my building.  This is where the dumpster is located.  Here is the sad part: The people in the aisle next to the window get all aflutter when the trash truck arrives to empty the dumpster.  For true.  I hear comments on the contents of the dumpster; how full the dumpster is; if the dumpster is fully emptied...oy.  I suppose I could look at it as those people making the best of a bad situation, and are trying to find entertainment anywhere they can, but mostly I feel sad that the people I work with are so enamored of trash.

image found at http://www.roydoty.com/ via google image search. 

So Much for That

Tell me, Joe, how relieved were you when you got work? When you knew you could text me and not have to lie about not coming up? Was it a huge weight off your shoulders? Did it alleviate the leaden feeling in your stomach? Perhaps I'm being naive in thinking you weren't lying about that. After all, I also believed that you'd tell me if you weren't interested and not just blow me off.

All that stuff about looking for this for the last 20 years? Guess that was a lie. So wait, you do lie? I'm confused. I'm confused as to why you couldn't tell me you changed your mind. I supposed you don't owe me anything. After all, our "relationship" was stillborn. You just didn't seem the type.

'Cause I'll admit I was messed up this weekend. I started thinking that my pheromones should be bottled as an alternative to Mace or pepper-spray. A non-lethal, yet wickedly effective man-repellent.

Yes, I got a little weird Friday night but I thought we were over that. Was it because I admitted I liked you? A lot? Was I not playing by the rules that we had been ignoring anyway? Or was it because you're so convinced that you are a crazy-magnet that you couldn't believe that I was any different? That despite my mostly normal behavior I was going to show up at your doorstep with a ball-gag, a gallon of Maalox and some rubber sheets?

So I don't know who to blame. Me, for being mildly awkward? Or you, for not having the balls to tell me? Either way, it's lose-lose, Joey.

Oh, the Heartbreak

Sunday is rapidly becoming my least favorite day of the week. Is it because of the massive amounts of laundry I have to do? No. Is it because I am so burnt out on my job that I can't bear the thought of another week starting? Good guess, but no. Sundays, along with this coming Thursday and the occasional Monday, suck because my beloved Philadelphia Eagles are outdoing themselves in the suckiness department.

Oh sure, the defense still performs (mostly), Westbrook does the best he can (which is pretty damn good), and Desean Jackson has some serious potential, but that's not enough. Our team can't bring the run, I think Andy Reid's brain is being throttled by cholesterol and McNabb has all but given up. Putting Kolb in for the second half of yesterday's game was a brilliant decision - if Reid was looking to showcase how the Birds can fail regardless of who is throwing the ball. I don't know why they bother keeping up the fiction that McNabb, or Kolb, is throwing to his team. Just pitch the ball to the opposting team and then stand aside and let them run it in. Nothing like upping the stats of the opposing team's defense. Some defensive players go their whole career without scoring a touchdown. Not anymore kids! Come to Philly! Score some points!

Anyone who knows me know that I have never been a fan of Donovan McNabb, aka: Fat Ass, Penishead, and Donovan "It's not my fault" McNabb. I feel that McNabb had potential 10 years ago when the Eagles drafted him. I also feel that McNabb never had the necessary fire to become a truly great QB. Yes, I know the man has battled season-ending injuries and come back to play again. However, one needs to ask: Did he come back better? Or even as good? My answer is gonna have to be "no".

A couple of years ago, it seemed that McNabb was well on his way to greatness - draggin my belagured Eagles behind him. My parents and I went to the last regular season game played in the Vet (Birds-Cards). The was the game when McNabb busted his ankle and you know what? He played pretty damn good. I don't remember the final score, but I know the Eagles won. Now that I think about it, that may have been their Super Bowl season. Don't quote me, though.

I am well aware that being a Philly sports fan is an act of raging masochism. Sure, the Soul and the Phillies won championships, and the Wings were good about 10 years ago, but successful sports franchises are few and far between here in Philthydelphia. And don't point out to me all the other cities that haven't brought a championship home in longer than it has been for Philly. I don't care about them. I'm too busy crying Eagles green.

Skin Hunger

I love the autumn months. As I believe I have mentioned before, I am happiest when wearing jeans or sweatpants and hoodies. I like having my window open when I sleep and piling on the blankets. I love the way the air smells and how the leaves change and how the sky is once again clear blue.

I hate that as soon as October hits my allergies go into overdrive. And despite the fact that I love autumn, I get depressed. I also hate that. Maybe it's SAD. Maybe it is because I feel my single status more sharply in the colder months. I'm not quite sure why. It's not because the marjority of my relationships were during the fall/winter season - because they weren't. Maybe it's like the magical beach thing, only instead of crashing waves and tousled hair, it's fuzzy hats and swirling leaves. Which brings me to cuddle parties. Bear with me.

What are cuddle parties? If you're too lazy to click the link, keep reading - I'll give you a mini-synposis. If you already know about the phenomenon, feel free to skip past. Cuddle parties are events where people get dressed in their jammies and lay in piles with other like-minded people. It's a way to touch and be touched in a non-sexual way. Studies have shown that touch is very important in the development of newborns. I know that touching stimulates the production of oxytocin and serotonin, both feel-good chemicals. I know that I'm getting to the point where I am almost starved for touch.

Anyway, some of the girls I work with went gaga over the idea of a cuddle party and started a fake sign-up sheet for a cuddle party of their own. Someone decided it would be great fun to sign my name on the first line. When I found out, I crossed it out. For some reason, I was completely unable to joke about the idea of paying someone to cuddle with me. Anytime someone commented on the fact that I crossed out my name, I'd reply, rather testily, "I didn't sign up in the first place." Most of the girls involved in the little joke are coupled, or have children. I don't think they understand how hard it can be to be alone. Bear in mind that I'm not crying "Woe is me" because I don't have a man or a kid. I don't feel incomplete being single and childless, but there are things that I miss.

It's funny. I'm almost desperate for casual touching, but I flinch at the idea of relative strangers touching me. I think that is because I'm afraid of what my reaction would be. I don't want to throw myself at someone. That would be awkward.

This is really hard for me to write about so if things get incoherent, I apologize.

Crap. I know you, dear follower, can't tell, but I have written and deleted several attempts to explain exactly how I feel about this whole thing. I guess it comes down to this: I feel like paying to cuddle is an admission that no one (not talking about family and friends, here) will ever touch me voluntarily ever again. It's like I'm giving up on the idea of having a cuddle partner of my own. It's also hard to explain because touch and sex are so intertwined. Yes, I desire sex, but I also want touching without sex.

I feel like I'm not getting my point across. I'm willing to bet you're thinking: Jeez, why doesn't she just hug her mom more? Or her friends? Would you want to tell your mom or your friends that you need to be touched more? Shit, just thinking about having a conversation like that is ooky. Also, some of my friends are touch adverse. And honestly, my friends don't need it from me, so I don't feel right asking them for it. My poor nephew has (unknowingly) shouldered the burden of my touch-craving. He's getting too big and squirmy now to lay quietly on my belly so I can rub my chin on his soft little head, but I do get kisses and the occasional head-butt.

The Gray

I am in a gray hole of apathy. No, I haven't gone all goth; I couldn't think of a better way of describing my state of mind. It's not quite a black hole of despair, but it certainly isn't all sunshine and unicorns.

This happens to me fairly frequently. Yes, it's monthly and, no, it isn't a premenstrual thing. In case anyone wants to mark the calendar, I am post-menstrual. Either that, or I spend most of the month premenstrual.

OK, enough about my cycle. The reason I decided to write about my grayness is because there isn't any apparent cause. While I have recently realized that I hate my job; I'm usually fairly good at separating work shit from the rest of my life. I may bitch about work when I'm not there, but I'm not usually actively angry when I do. As for the rest of my life; it's fine. I'm not any broker than usual, my cats are fine, I'm not sick, and aside from the passing of my great-aunt, my family is also fine.

I'm thinking that I can attribute the grayness to a lack of passion in my life. Not just the passion that is associated with love/sex, but the passion that comes from being interested in things/ideas. Let's face it: I don't do a whole lot. I read, I watch TV, and I eat bacon. I do the internet thing and I talk to my friends on a semi-regular basis. I'm definitely not knocking my friends, but we don't do much. Which is fine. I'm not relying on my friends to provide me with passion and excitement.

Are you shaking your head and thinking, "Silly girl. Why is she complaining? People are suffering. Children don't have enough food, people are being killed for shiny rocks, the economy is in the toilet and China makes everything. She thinks a lack of passion is a big deal?" Well yes, yes I do. Just because I'm not dealing with life-threatening illness, or complete economic collapse, or - or whatever, doesn't mean that what I'm dealing with doesn't suck. 'Cause it does suck; it sucks for me.

I am grateful that I have a job and a home and pets that allow me to pet them right after I feed them. I'm grateful that my parents love me and I have the wherewithal to buy bacon. I'm not looking for someone to come along and completely change my life. I don't want to be famous (infamous is another story) and I don't want to be the secret lost child of someone famous. I really just want to feel that life isn't all about nothing.

I've been thinking about the purpose of life a lot lately. It's nothing especially ground-breaking or coherent, but the thoughts are there. Back in the day (yeah, then), people were all about survival and procreation. If you didn't spend all day looking for food you would die. If you didn't spawn your line would die out. (That could lead me into a whole other line of think about why the hell humans find it so effing important to continue their line. Maybe another post.) While survival is still part of the plan, it seems like life is more about things. I'm not going to go off on a rant about materialism and rampant consumerism, but I still see it. You work to have a place to live, to buy food, to buy stuff. Some people are in a position where their job makes them happy and the fact that they get paid - well, that's just gravy. Maybe those people need fewer things. Maybe it's the cubicle drones, the "I didn't want to be a lawyer but my dad wouldn't pay for art school", the undereducated, who need things. Then again, maybe it isn't. Maybe those people have things outside of work that make them happy; things that they are passionate about. I'd hate to be guilty of defining people by their jobs. It's bad enough that people are still often defined by appearances.

Point? I don't know. I guess my point is that I've got to get up off my ass and find my passion(s). I don't like being in the gray and I know I'm not tons of fun to be around when I am. It would be nice if my brain hadn't evolved and I could be all reptile-like. You know, basking on rocks, eating bugs, etc. Or maybe it'd be great if I could turn off the fucking neurochemicals that make me sad for NO APPARENT REASON. That is all.