I consider her among my best, deepest friends even though we rarely talk and see each other even less. But when I once did, the nature of our friendship lead the conversation to the darker parts of our thoughts, almost immediately.
She told me that yes, her relationship was satisfying, but she was having increasing trouble with him being such a “man’s man.” At the time, I didn’t really know what she meant by that and momentarily found myself wondering what must be so difficult about it to tolerate.
Having spent several nights in a bed too small for me and my colleague in some ratty hotel in Paris, I now wonder how she coped for so long. Holy shitcakes, we men are intolerable creatures. Not even “aww that’s endearing in a disgusting way” but rather, “Okay that’s it I’m leaving.”
I could bear with the ‘snicker-fart-snicker’ routines in bed, but two liters of nightshop piss had him sleeping so deeply that he didn’t realize he was half on top of me, snoring sexily into my ear. Combined with the drinking, trash talk and nightly tossing and turning like a flea-ridden retriever, I was effectively robbed of 90% of sleep on the first night, and only about half on the second. I fell asleep twice just writing this, already.
No, I was not impressed. He’s a mighty fine colleague but if I were a woman or otherwise attracted to men, he’d have to pull out some serious puppy eye action before I’d bed him.
So what does that say about me? If I am in some way revolting in private, it couldn’t hurt being informed about it so I could apologize in advance á la “I masturbate in my sleep, I hope you don’t mind. Nothing personal.” I don’t drink or snore but I can’t help the fact that I was born with stuff on me that clogs shower drains. (Okay I wasn’t really born with that. Gross.)
On a scale from 1 to 10, how bad is that? I can’t tell.
Let’s say, 1 is a bald germophobe in the same building as you, 10 is Chewbacca humping your leg after spilling his monster portion of Roadkill Ravioli.
…8? No clue.
Girls have it easy: They don’t reek or scratch themselves, and are pleasant to look at regardless of their dress state. Whatever you might think of yourself, chicks; You will never look as bad as us immediately after waking up. Thank motherfucking god.
So what could possibly be worse than being locked in a room with my own kind for 2 nights?
The prospect of another session. We’re going back next Friday for not 1, not 2, but 3 consecutive nights in Hell’s armpits.
Several of my roommates are in that phase of life where they want to get a move on with things, but don’t know which way. Poor bastards. They’re looking for work now and too careful to go for what they really want, instead getting excited about jobs that have “attempted suicide within 2 years” written all over them.
As upper-middle class white kids, we all grew up with parents who left for work in the morning, came home in the late afternoon and went on with whatever they did at home. We didn’t have the slightest clue what they really did all day, and didn’t grasp how exhausting that work was, or how necessary to rake in a living.
And so, we came to believe that work was something “out there,” that didn’t really have anything to do with real life. And still, I don’t think these kids (as an adult, I may call them kids) already realize how much your job invades your life. We spend more time awake at work than we do with our significant others. Logically: If you have a shit job, you have a shit life.
I keep insisting they focus on something they like doing, and make it their job. Seems easy enough: Do it enough and you’ll become better at it, become good enough and you can do it professionally. Simplez.
But when I ask what they want to do, the answer is “I don’t know.” They don’t have specific hobbies, or feel very passionate about anything. One of them wants to continue studying: Politics. If they’re anything that rubs me the wrong way, it’s western politics. But I can’t talk it out of her.
What has the world come to, that our children want to study political science rather than work in a candy factory? I keep mentioning jobs and they keep saying “Wow I would love to do that” but never bother to call. Someone along the line, told them that they can’t become what they want.
Why the fuck would you want to do something that you hate? Is it that much worse to rent some money with family and/or continue looking for that one job you always dreamed of? How is it possible that you don’t realize what your passions are? Nobody could be that boring, could they?
“If I could get rich staying home and jerking off, I’d be a fucking millionaire,” a friend once told me. Okay so that’s out of the question, although a know a couple people who are well on the way. There’s a system here to help us, but those bureaucrat assholes seem to be working against us more than anything, most of the time. Long story short: Simply finding a cool job is a long and painstaking process. We should be thankful that it’s possible at all even without degree to speak of (just 20 years ago you could just forget about it), but these kids are confronted with what is expected from them by people who really don’t have any authority over them, and it’s very discouraging.
I guess they’ll have to find out on their own. I repeatedly give them my unwelcome opinion but they seem convinced that I’ve got it made and don’t really know what I’m talking about. Which is partially true, but in another sense I am not in the least bit better off than they are- I have to ask myself what I want and how to get it, on a constant basis. They mistake that behavior for screwing around, I call it “freelancing”. Subtle difference.