Ziggurat

Ziggurat at Ur in Iraq

I hate it when people tell me that I don’t appreciate something because I’m bitter. If I don’t like someone, it’s because I’m jealous of their happiness. If I think the way a couple holds hands and canoodles in public is annoying, it means I’m mad that I can’t have an awesome relationship like theirs. If I rant about a movie I hated, people will say, “Oh yeah, like YOU could do better.” Actually, I probably could, but I’m not going to make a movie just so you can critique it. Because even if the hypothetical movie that I make is better than Transformers 7: The Titsplosion (which it almost certainly would be, because fuck Michael Bay), you would probably still find reasons to criticize it. Because that’s what criticism is, from the standpoint of people who aren’t critics. They think it’s all about telling other people that you could do better than they could. But as Pauline Kael once said, criticism is an art form all by itself. There are right ways and wrong ways to do it, and like anything else in art, it’s highly subjective.

I find that I am not very good at estimating how long stuff will take. In the past few months, I’ve missed both a job interview and a play that a friend was in because I didn’t realize just how bad rush hour traffic can get. In one case, I left my house at just after four for a drive that, in good traffic, would take less than half an hour. It took more than twice that. In another case, I left my house for a drive that, in good traffic, could take a little under one hour, and spent 40 minutes just getting on the freeway. As I sat in my car looking at all the other commuters and wondering just how they managed to deal with this shit day in and day out, I resolved never to become like that. Please don’t give me this bullshit about how everybody sells out and goes to work for the man sooner or later. It isn’t true, and if you believe it, it’s probably because you’re a sellout. I try not to succumb to road rage, but man, when you drive down the freeway for half an hour without your speed ever going above 50, you start to get pretty fucking annoyed. Things shouldn’t be like this. They just shouldn’t.

When I was in high school, one of my teachers asked us to draw a pyramid with various layers representing what we wanted in life. I think I put some boring domestic scene on one of the lower layers, with a drawing of myself writing at a desk at the top representing the highest layer of self-actualization. I’m not sure if I still believe that, if only because the entire concept of representing what a person wants in a pyramid seems a little faulty. Then again, maybe not, and all I have to do is figure out what goes on the lower layers. Because once you have food, water, and shelter, the rest is pretty much up to you. Writing is still the most effective tool I have at shutting up the screaming voices in my head. But I have a feeling that it might not always be that way, that I might someday run up against a problem that I can’t simply whine about on my blog. I’ve had no shortage of real-life drama result from something I’ve written here, but I keep doing it because if something I write here offends you, maybe you just shouldn’t read it. As long as I’m not giving away your personal info here, I can say basically whatever I want about anyone. Yes, anyone. Because it is just a blog.

It’s been my experience that it’s more important to have what you have unconditionally than to have it at all. Let me explain: When my mother moved back in, she brought another car with her. I thought that now that we had two cars, I would be able to do shit like run errands whenever I wanted and drive to work on mornings when I didn’t feel like getting up super early, then walking over a mile to catch the train/bus. But of course, my parents have a desire to keep an eye on me. I thought it was unconscious, but now I’m starting to think it might not be. When I took the car to go to my interview, I almost prevented my mother from making her yoga class. My father reprimanded me, then my mother knocked on my door later to do so as well. Could they possibly have communicated with each other so that I didn’t hear the same thing twice? (Three times, actually, if you count the voicemail she left me.) I feel like the dude in Office Space who keeps hearing about how he’s using the wrong cover sheets on his TPS reports. If you had to decide between having to clear it with two people every time you feel like driving and just walking everywhere, which would you choose?

I know I keep talking about the same topics: apartment hunting, issues with my parents, etc. Unfortunately, that’s just where we’re at right now. I want to move out, but nobody will give me a place. I’ve responded to dozens of Craigslist ads and looked at more than a handful of places, but they always give it to the other guy, perhaps because they can sense my desperation. (Then again, maybe they’re just assholes.) I’m the other guy to another guy, so why can’t I catch a break? I don’t know. I just don’t know.

Someday, I’m going to write everything down in a journal, then burn it. Because these days, I’m just not concerned with posterity.

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