Despondency

In less than two weeks time I leave for Japan for my holiday. It’s kinda hard to believe it snuck up so quickly.

It is becoming increasingly difficult to focus upon my job at hand, due to the excitement surrounding the trip. Also, upon my return I won’t be sitting in this building anymore – moving to another location to resume my duties.

Thankfully I will be away from my high-school ex girlfriend who resides upon the same floor of my building. Awkward? Oh yeah… especially if you consider the nasty things I said to her way back when… that she’s obviously still not fully accepting. Oh well. I did say some despicable things about her.

This post is a bit everywhere, so a common theme will be missing.

Dear clients, please refrain from attempting to use jargon relative to telecommunications. You only confuse yourself, and when I do what you ask (assuming you know what you’re talking about) I end up doing something that is totally fucking opposite to what you wanted. DO NOT USE JARGON THAT YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT THE FUCK MEANS!!!

Dear blonde girl that keeps walking past my desk, eyeing me off. Make sure your boyfriend doesn’t catch you looking at people like that. He looks like the jealous type. Sure, there’s no harm in appreciating views but YOUR BOYFRIEND WILL PROBABLY FUCKING SNAP IF HE EVEN THINKS SOMEONE IS CONTEMPLATING IDEAS ABOUT LOOKING IN YOUR GENERAL DIRECTION!!!

I made the mistake of walking past Adelaide Uni’s Orientation week festivities today. Personally, I just wanted to head off down the river Torrens for a quiet walk.

Everyone looks so freaking young, it disturbs me.

I’m only 27 years old, but this feeling of being “past it” seems to permeate through my thoughts.

As I walked along the river, I spied many people laying down underneath trees, reading books, chatting with friends or quietly scribbling down ideas, answers and other miscellaneous pieces of text.

I look up and see the Riverside building looming in the distance, almost foreboding, like a monument to my current despondency with my work. It’s not like I don’t feel appreciated… I do. It’s not like I am no good at my work… I am. It’s not like I hate the people I work with… hate is a strong word.

I just don’t fucking care about the job.

I see these people laying in the shade, and I feel nothing but envy. The group of emos that gather in a circle and chat comfortably is something I admire, despite my belief that their continued existence is incongruous to their “sometimes better dead” philosophies.

Solution?

Get off MY FUCKING ARSE AND FINISH THIS NOVEL!!!!!

THAT day.

I’m sure everyone is banging on about Valentine’s Day today.

Yes, it is the one day of the year that you simply cannot eat out…

At a restaurant, people!! Grow up. You simply cannot eat out at a restaurant because instead of an intimate night out with the person you love, you’re sharing dozens of tables with pairs of people staring longingly at each other’s eyes.

She’s thinking, this is so romantic.

He’s thinking, I’d better be eating out later…

Discussion has been made on news.com.au regarding who should be paying on a first date, and whether this whole notion of men paying is so far outdated that Corey Haim is the spokesperson for the cause.

Naturally, the battle of the sexes steps in and shows its ugly mug.

And then there’s the mob paraphrasing, or at least subscribing to, Lisa Simpson’s philosophy that romance, and indeed the idea of Valentine’s Day was “… acquired in a hostile takeover by Hallmark and Disney, homogenized, and sold off piece by piece.”

Oh and let’s not forget the high-horse sitters who claim that there are far more important things than material possessions and presents and the sort. Yep, I love those seeking higher moral ground… I trust they have very happy birthdays when no one gives them anything.

Now, I previously was of the impression that people shouldn’t need a single day of the year to be reminded that they should treat their other halves, as I would surprise my former partners a few times during a year… just ‘cos

However, doing something on Valentine’s Day seemed to pack a fair bit more wallop than usual. I’ll be fucked if I knew why… pun intended. There must be something in the air on the day… Hallmark probably sprays the air with pheromones or something.

Now I just think that this whole she-bang of treating your partner on Valentines Day is a bit of fun that we can all indulge in. It’s harmless. It takes very little effort. It makes an impact.

Her friends ask “Oh what did you do on Valentines Day?”

She responds, “We had a sumptuous dinner at a silver service restaurant. The wine was impeccable and went well with the medium scotch fillet in raspberry jus. Afterwards we went for a stroll along the river, and it was beautiful the way the fountain lights up at night time and the Convention Centre casts its reflection across the water…”

The friends swoon – the single one secretly plotting to seduce and usurp the boyfriend.

His friends ask, “What’d ya do for the missus?”

He responds “We went to a restaurant. I ate out.”

His friends applaud and buy another round of beers before putting some dollars on the trots.

Valentines Day. Sure, it may mean nothing except dollar signs at card companies and florists. Sure, the idea that denoting a single day in a year to show your love for someone is moronic.

But it’s just a bit of fun, with wine, romance and eating out. Where is the harm in that?

The Asylum’s World of Hypocrisy

Welcome to the lovely phase of my life in where I stop and consider exactly why you cannot take some things to heart: because the world ain’t fucking fair.

If someone is cracking onto my partner by using flirty language and asking her if she’s been “into [him]”, I cannot request that he not speak with her like that because that makes me a jealous bastard.
If I am speaking to someone’s girlfriend about anything, I must stop… because I am obviously cracking onto them.

If someone else acts stupid, it is because they are behaving the “way they are”
If I act stupid, I must learn to grow up and control myself.

Speaking about sex is witty and humourous.
If I speak about sex, I am being vulgar and offensive.

No-one person is perfect, so I must keep that in mind and accept their quirks.
I am not perfect, therefore I must have my faults highlighted at every moment, and I must change myself.

I must tolerate being snubbed by those who don’t deem me worthy. That is the way they are.
I cannot snub people who hurt me, as being able to forgive makes me the “better person”.

If someone assumes that I am doing something untoward, I must apologise for giving them that impression.
If I assume someone is doing something untoward, I am being needlessly presumptuous, and must apologise for not giving people benefit of the doubt.

Everyone else is adventurous.
I am needlessly impulsive.

Everyone else is eloquent and intelligent.
I am verbose and condescending.

Everyone else is fine the way they are.
I need to improve myself.

Everyone else is frustrated at all the pressure they’re under.
I am an angry man.

People who have a less than favourable impression of me are entitled to their opinion, and I must ignore the way they spread fallacious rumours about me.
I am far too judgmental

I must learn to see other peoples’ points of view and listen to their expectations.
I cannot demand too much of others

I must respect my fellow humans
I must earn respect

I sometimes wonder if this is all worth it. Is the socializing and requirement for acceptance really worth all the heartache, judgment, sorrow, confrontation, jealousies, group regulations, and interpretations of these rules?

Because for all the happiness and good times I’ve shared with people, it seems that they’re fleeting moments. Like a butterfly that flutters by, it entrances you for a moment with its beauty, only to disappear from view with the reminder that the creature will die in a matter of days.

I simply feel exhausted at the idea of having to stand up for my convictions when no one seems to give a shit.

Perhaps everyone feels the way I do right now, but simply do not feel the need to vent it out there. Maybe I should learn to understand my lot in this life.

Right now, though? Well, I happy being pissed off. I think I’m entitled to it every now and then.

The "other" insight

Question. How can you tell if you’re the only straight guy at a fancy dress party?

Answer: You’re the only one not wearing a uniform of an authority figure, eg Policeman, Naval Officer, Pilot etc.

However, the answer, “Because you’re the only guy the women aren’t talking to” would also be acceptable.

Oh, the joys that are the fancy dress parties. This time the theme was something along the lines of “an occupation”, in which case I was tempted to be unimaginative and wear my work suit and make up something esoteric.

Like “hitman”, “sleazy car salesman” or even “bored out of his brains public servant”.

However, I would’ve needed a shotgun for that last one to make the image complete.

Although one person did query me as to the best method of getting attention at the party, to which I suggested “running through the front door, diving over the couch, rolling, standing back up, darting the eyes around in a state of panic before sighing loudly and announcing to all ‘Don’t worry, I think I’ve lost ‘em’”

That got many laughs, however considering the condition of these people at that point in time, I think they would’ve laughed at something completely unfunny. Like Comedy Inc (local sketch comedy show).

However, the highlight of the night came from being interrogated by a man in uniform as to the kind of person I was.

And no, he wasn’t trying to get me to “hop the fence”.

He stated unequivocally that he could look into the eyes of a person and tell exactly what they were like. He then continued on about how I’m in a good place right now, and various other musings I put down to “I’m trying to awe you with my incredible insight”

My immediate reaction would’ve been to stare into his eyes and then do a nervous twitch akin to a maniac on the brink of a homicidal outburst, only requiring a small trigger to set me off on my “Path of Purification”, but instead I just stood there… nodding.

I think sometimes you just gotta stop being antagonistic and basically let people give you their “insight” just so they can feel good about themselves.

Immaterial consumerist

It’s kinda difficult to explain.

I seem to have gotten into a habit in where it feels alien, weird even, to spoil myself with a material possession.

I simply cannot see the wisdom in going out and buying that 40GB iPod, fancy jacket, SLR digital camera, the entire first season of Mythbusters on DVD or that jewel encrusted fishbowl containing a fish with a memory span of 31 seconds, instead of the standard 30.

(yes, I know that fish memory myth was busted on Mythbusters… but I’m using it anyway)

But this isn’t some anti-materialism stance I’m on. Hell, it’s not like I’m a money grubbing hoarder with myriads of shoe boxes of cash under his bed, protected by a pair of rabid Siamese fighting fish.

I have no qualms about going to an expensive restaurant and wining and dining away til the small hours and acting like a pompous, materialistic prat.

“Fetch me some wine, Garson. Tendey voo over here sivvoo play!”

I hadn’t bought a CD for nine months until a couple weeks ago, and even then it felt weird… like my money would be better spent on something else. Like a fish with 32 seconds memory.

Over the years that I spent saving for a house, buying a house, doing up a house, decorating a house with a water feature and goldfish, and selling a house, I simply forgot what it was like to shower myself with gifts.

Instead, I spent my money on things that couldn’t be traced back by my partner and then held against me as “wasting money”.

But now that I have a disposable income… fucked if I know how to use it. Forget buying CDs, DVDs, and clothes… there’s always the radio, cinema and old (perfectly good) clothes [which are out of date, but I’m too old to be fashionable anyway].

So, I simply must provide a warning to those people who are saving like Scrooge McDuck swimming in his money vault with an inflatable lifesaver ring whilst eating Lifesavers confectionary, just so they can buy a roof over their heads in Australia’s overpriced, overvalued, and overbaked property market…

… You’re getting into bad habits. Don’t forget how to spoil yourself. Don’t forget. You’re not a fish, after all.

underdogged

I’d write more, but I have been far too busy trying to cover myself with both my fever-drenched arms in a desperate and futile attempt to stave off the shivers.

Yes, I am ill. Again.

But last Sunday, I was privy to laying back and watching the Australian Open final coverage, which seemed to revolve around one Marcos Baghdatis and his fairy tale scurry into the Grand Slam final.

And he did very, very well to do so. Good for him. All it takes is one Grand Slam final appearance to basically set you up for a while, and the extra boon for being a huge underdog makes you the darling of Australia for two whole seconds before we start raving about how fuckin’ awesome Thorpie is and how our cricket team are like gods.

But Australians’ love an underdog*, I’m told.

You see, the idea that someone unheard of can stand up, stare in the face of the glorious powers that be and giggle their arse off is one we love to hear about.

The way that everyone raved about the Giant Slayer Baghdatis and how they love underdog stories, you’d think that Roger Federer has never been an underdog before, that he just waltz onto a court one day, hit a few balls and before he could say “What the…?” he was world number one.

And that’s the issue I have with Australia’s mania for a fairytale underdog story. What if, say, Baghdatis won the Australian Open. And after that he won another few more titles? He returns to Melbourne to defend his crown, only to have a young kid with a mosquito net and rope sandals staring at him in the Slam final… the audience has turned on him, when he was their hero only a year before.

He slaved away at his game, trying to improve it, but… no one is supporting him anymore. Everyone is cheering on this dusty little twerp who managed to claw his way through the finals with nothing but the shirt on his back and a bug catcher.

This whole Love for the Underdog bullshit has turned us Australians into a bunch of bandwagon jumpers, hopping from one fad to the next.

Heaven forbid that we applauded anything for being the best for a certain period of time. Hell, our nature of cutting down the tallest poppy doesn’t really inspire me to be the best at something.

Because, you know, if something is good or popular, it has to be shit.

* unless the underdog is from England, New Zealand or the United States. Or if they’re from New Zealand, we’ll claim them as our own.