Take

I’m writing this blog post so that I don’t have to murder a kitten to exorcise my anger. See, I scraped a dude’s car. It was my fault. I was driving in a big city (which always makes me nervous), then changed lanes without looking to make sure it was unoccupied and swiped his door and front bumper. Surveying the damage, my untrained eye judged that the damage would take about $500 to fix. It doesn’t even look that bad. But my father, after seeing pictures, said that it would cost over $1000, easily. How the fuck is that even possible? Do they have to replace the entire door just to fix one little dent? Honestly, it wouldn’t even be worth fixing except that the dude’s mother (who is the car owner, not the dude himself) apparently takes very good car of that car. Fuck. Everything.

Of course, my father will cover the damages. He’ll have to. He asked me about my plans to find a second job not too long ago. I told him I had no such plans. He asked me what my long-term goals were. I told him that I was trying to become the best possible coffee shop employee that I could. Because, you see, he’s planning to move to SoCal to be with my mother early next year. They’ve been living in separate states and flying back and forth to see each other for the last six years or so and are understandably anxious to be living together again. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t want to move to SoCal and I don’t think I’ll be able to make enough on this job alone to pay for rent, groceries, loans, and coke orgies. But I will be goddamned if I’ll get another job when I’m still learning the ropes at my current one just because he wants me to. I just wish I weren’t so dependent on him. And that one momentary slip-up didn’t cost so much. And that all of you were dead.

Maybe I should go volunteer with a local organization that I like. I’m sure I can find one. I scraped a parked car last year and the damage (at least, what I had to pay) was just under $900. The crunch that I made as I hit that car was sickening. It sounded like somebody had died even though there was nobody inside. I could have just hit and run, but decided that would be dishonest. Hitting and running for this recent incident would have been difficult, as the dude would almost certainly have been able to remember my license plate number and find me. But sometimes I wish I were a terrible person. It would make my life so much easier. What the fuck do I have to show for all this? A low-paying job customer service job (which, given my antisocial inclinations, is very stressful), a home that I don’t own and will have to move out of soon, a fuckton of debt, and a whole lot of time spent masturbating. I hate everyone.

Ever want to just disappear?

Ever want to just disappear?

I’m not sure if I’m making myself clear here. Look around. Do you see a window? Jump out of it. Make sure you go headfirst. If you’re on the ground floor, you might have to headbutt the pavement a couple times to finish the job. Do you think I’m joking? Fuck you. I’m so angry right now that I can barely even sleep. One. Thousand. Dollars. Fuck. Everything. And as always, I was just starting to feel excited about my future. Why do I allow myself to feel optimistic?

I guess fixing car doors is harder than fixing fenders or headlights. All I know is that the sound I made as I hit this dude’s car really didn’t sicken me the way the last one did, and that ought to count for something. Maybe the last guy’s insurance paid for some of it? I have no idea. I don’t even know much about insurance. The furniture in my room is banged up and missing pieces because every time I get angry, I hit something. I’ve destroyed shit I like because I couldn’t stop myself. You try sitting alone in your room all day with no friends or distractions and see what that does to you. I’m not a freak. I don’t even think I have anger management issues because I haven’t struck another human being in almost a decade. But I am angry all the same. I deserve much, much better than this.

There was a required course in my final semester of grad school that frustrated the living hell out of me. Conceptually, it was very easy, but there was so much busywork that it was common to spend six to nine hours on a single assignment, sometimes more. Even though I probably worked harder than others, I couldn’t get the hang of it. My spreadsheets didn’t look right. It’s not difficult to set up a spreadsheet, but I just…couldn’t picture it. So I consistently scored lower than my classmates on assignments on which the class average was around 98%. Somehow, even with sample spreadsheets to use as a template, I could spend hours staring at a blank screen before even setting up a table. Maybe I’m just not very detail-oriented. By contrast, they’re constantly telling me that I’m taking too long to finish tasks at my current job. I guess that’s because I’m a perfectionist.

I got an A in that class, by the way. The professor gave almost everybody A’s (just for effort, I’m guessing). I remember looking at that grade on my report card and thinking that, just once, I might have earned a pleasant surprise. I feel like I could use a pleasant surprise right now. Which means I won’t get one for a very, very long time.

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