Reality sets in sometime mid-morning Monday. I queue insertion orders on one screen and toggle to the furniture listings on the next. I’m aiming to buy the bulk of the apartment furniture off Craig’s List. That site is good to me as the spot I found the apartment, job, former column, parties, and misadventures. The Zen plays on low (since I have a thing about ear-drum splitting music outside of clubs) and I’m unable to drown out the screeching whines across the aisle no matter how much I zone out. This scenario has played out for too long. I don’t think I can last much longer.
I’m in a position of liking the job in itself but hating the co-workers. I like my team. I like that I’m autonomous. But, I hate the pervasive camp culture and the team near us with the most high-pitched voices (male and female) I’ve ever seen. I’m a loner in a box. I know I’ve been isolating myself further as time has passed out of spite and I’m sick of it. It’s counterproductive and makes me feel worse. I want to be a part of a group, just not that one. I’m mentally planning my escape.
Ant and I both view the new place as a fresh start. He hopes to be released from the desk chains and I just want to feel creative again. Money is always the big factor. In a way, I should’ve been more proactive and laid down some tracks for the writing last year in my marginally employed state, but hindsight is 20-20 and I also couldn’t afford it then either. I wasn’t mentally ready. In a way, I feel like I’ll be more hungry now. I need you to accept my pitch/resume because I’ve got my share of rent/cable/gas/electric to pay and have no nest egg/parental bankrolling to fuck around with, motherfuckers! Meanwhile, I’m stepping up — brainstorming, researching, eyeing the options… but I can’t jump until I’ve got something set. And you probably thought my resolutions were just lip service? Shit is real, people.